


so long & lost (are you missing me?)

by taywen



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Bodyswap, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Low Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Post-Low Chaos Ending, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:04:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Corvo grimaced. He’d avoided thinking of the assassin’s name, as if acknowledging the bastard would make the situation reality. It was an irrational notion, but nothing about the current situation made sense either.</i>
</p><p><i>Then an even more unpleasant prospect occurred to him: if he was here, did that mean </i>Daud<i> was in Dunwall?</i></p><p>Corvo wakes up in Daud’s body, and vice versa. It goes about as well as you might expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title from Florence + the Machine because apparently that’s just how I roll now?
> 
> the Corvo/Daud is more at the end since... they don't even appear together... for most of the fic.......

Corvo woke with a jolt, fractured recollections of the Outsider and the Void lingering in his mind until those scant details splintered into incomprehensibility as he tried to hold on to them.

His awareness of his surroundings came just as abruptly, and Corvo tensed further. The room was smaller than his veritable suite in Dunwall Tower; smaller even than the attic room the Loyalists had set aside for him at the Hound Pits. It was larger than his cell in Coldridge had been, however.

A light blanket lay over him, threadbare fabric that had seen better days. Bright sunlight, the likes of which Dunwall saw only rarely, streamed through the single window. The bed sat in the corner furthest from the door, with a trunk laid at its feet and a small bookshelf at its side. A desk was positioned beneath the window, taking advantage of the light. Its surface was tidy, writing implements sorted neatly and sheets of paper ordered in several stacks.

Corvo stared at the distinctive red jacket draped over the back of the desk chair.

“This is a dream,” Corvo muttered, then jerked back. His voice was deeper; harsh. But familiar, though it had never come from Corvo’s throat before. “This is a bad dream, and I’m going to wake up- now.”

Nothing happened.

Corvo groaned and slumped back against the pillow, sorely tempted to curl up in the unfamiliar bed and pretend this wasn’t happening. He allowed himself to wallow for a few brief seconds before getting up.

He’d woken in worse situations, with less information to go on. The cell in Coldridge, and that hazy trip down the Wrenhaven to the Flooded District came most prominently to mind. With a sigh, Corvo took stock of what he knew.

The mark was still on his hand, though it wasn’t _his_ hand. The skin was tanned a darker shade than anyone could manage in Dunwall, but if Corvo was where he suspected, the shining sun was the norm, not the exception.

The jacket fairly gleaming in the shaft of sunlight was a damning clue; Corvo gave it a dirty glare and turned pointedly away from the desk and its contents.

A pair of gloves, of the standard style rather than the ridiculously long things the Whalers had worn in Dunwall, sat atop the trunk. Corvo tugged them on automatically, a habit he’d adopted since bringing Emily back to the Tower.

Opening the trunk revealed a collection of clothes more suited for a warmer climate. Nestled on top was a collection of sheathed knives obviously meant to be worn beneath the brightly coloured shirts. Corvo’d half-expected the distinctive cross-hatched blades he remembered, but- perhaps Daud no longer had his. Corvo had found one laid reverently at Jessamine’s grave, after all.

Then he grimaced. He’d avoided thinking of the assassin’s name, as if acknowledging the bastard would make the situation reality. It was an irrational thought, but nothing about the current situation made sense either.

Corvo shook his head, dispelling those thoughts. He needed to confirm everything he didn’t know, most pressingly: was he actually in Daud’s body, was he back on Serkonos, how soon could he be back at Emily’s side? The latter preferably involving Corvo’s return to his own body, as this one was associated with several unpleasant memories for her.

Then an even more unpleasant prospect occurred to him: if Corvo was here, did that mean _Daud_ was in Dunwall?

* * *

“You are not Corvo,” the Heart told him. Daud half-expected the cursed thing to slice his hand to ribbons, but it refrained, somehow. Perhaps because he _was_ in Corvo’s body, for better or for worse.

He stared down at it, pulsing steadily in his hand. Of course Corvo slept with it near; why wouldn’t he? Corvo was the Outsider’s latest obsession, and the black-eyed bastard wouldn’t settle for anyone or anything mundane.

“Corvo!”

Daud froze. He had only heard Emily Kaldwin’s voice a handful of times, and never coloured in such gleeful tones; no, her words had been saturated in fear and anger, the few times she had spoken in his presence.

The door burst open to admit the Empress of the Isles before Daud could do more than hiss “What do I _do_?!” at the Heart, which remained infuriatingly silent, naturally.

“The maid said you slept in, but I hardly believed-” Emily drew up short, her face splitting in a wide grin as she looked at him.

Daud shoved the Heart under the pillow as surreptitiously as possible, which was to say not at all. Fortunately, Emily didn’t seem to notice, or at least didn’t comment on it. All she did was stare at him with obvious amusement.

“-your hair!” Emily said, collapsing into giggles. She kicked the door shut behind her, shaking with laughter as she made her way to the bed. Her movements were clearly telegraphed, so Daud managed not to flinch when she reached out to grasp his hand- the right, of course.

He followed, bewildered, as she led him to a dressing table and pushed him down. It seemed Corvo slept without a shirt, as was Daud’s custom. His eyes caught on the scars scattered across Corvo’s- his- no, Corvo’s- body. The older ones were random, old wounds from battle and daily life; the newer ones were healed, but there was a pattern to them that might have turned the stomach of a man less accustomed to violence. A legacy of Corvo’s time in Coldridge, Daud imagined.

Emily rummaged in the drawer, unaware of the guilt and regret warring in Corvo’s body. Daud managed to force Corvo’s face into a more suitable expression just as she produced a brush.

“Emp-” No, too impersonal. Corvo would call her Emily in private, at least. “Emily,” Daud amended, “I can brush my own hair.”

“Of course you can,” Emily said, applying herself to the task all the same. The look of serious concentration on her face was strangely- endearing. Daud could only stare at her in the mirror, too overwhelmed by this absurd turn of events to protest further. He should have used the reprieve to order his thoughts, try to figure out how to proceed from there, but all he could think was-

“You’re good at this.”

Emily flashed him a brief, sad smile in the mirror. “Well, Mother let me practice a lot.” She turned back to Corvo’s hair, which was fortunate; the look that crossed Corvo’s face then could only be described as gutted.

 _Fuck_.

Daud looked down at his hands, fisted in his lap. The joints of his fingers ached faintly from how hard he had them clenched, and with deliberate care he relaxed them again. The mark was as stark and obvious on the back of his left hand as it had been the day Corvo had washed up in the Flooded District.

Did Corvo wear gloves now? He must; he couldn’t be stupid or arrogant enough not to. Even if the new High Overseer was, from what Daud had heard, largely subservient to the Empress, such a blatant display of heresy couldn’t be acceptable.

“There, all done,” Emily announced, setting the brush down. She smiled at Daud in the mirror, and Daud forced a smile back. Her happy expression faded and she stepped up beside him, her two small hands curling around his larger one. Her fingers brushed over the mark, and this time Daud couldn’t stop himself from jerking away.

Emily seemed unsurprised by that reaction, however. “You must have really slept in,” was all she said, crossing back to the bed. She held up the pair of leather gloves that had been sitting on the bedside table. “I don’t think I’ve seen you without these since we returned to the Tower.”

“Bad dream,” Daud lied. He hadn’t dreamed at all, or if he had, he couldn’t remember it. The nightmare was here and now, Daud’s spirit in Corvo’s body.

Emily scowled. “The black-eyed man again?”

Daud hesitated. How much did Emily know about the Outsider? Corvo wouldn’t have confided in her, surely. But if anyone were to believe him, and not have him thrown in the stocks at Holger or worse, it would be Emily.

“Yes, it’s to do with the Outsider,” Daud began, because he couldn’t imagine the bastard not being involved in this strange turn of events. “I’m-”

* * *

- _not Daud_ , Corvo meant to say, but the words stuck in his throat and he dissolved into a coughing fit.

The Whaler (Corvo assumed, though he was dressed in regular clothes) looked at Corvo with obvious alarm.

“Are you all right?” the young man asked.

“ _That_ shirt again?” an older man muttered, exasperated, as he walked past, which was just insulting. This shirt was nearly the same shade of blue as Corvo’s uniform jacket, and there was certainly nothing wrong with it.

“Hobson!” the first Whaler said with obvious relief. “I think Daud has a cold.”

Hobson fixed Corvo with an unimpressed expression. “Must be from all that nighttime brooding,” he said. Then, when the unnamed Whaler just looked at him pleadingly, added, “What do you expect me to do? If it’s a cold, his body just needs to get over it.”

Beginning to feel light-headed, Corvo gave up trying to tell the truth. The tightness in his throat eased immediately and he accepted the glass of water produced from somewhere by the earnest young man gratefully.

“There, Thomas, see? He’s fine,” Hobson said, and continued down the hall.

Corvo held up the now-empty glass. “Thank you, Thomas.” His stomach chose that moment to make its own emptiness known, the growl loud in the awkward silence.

Thomas grinned, though he stifled it quickly. “Breakfast is over, so I doubt there’s any leftovers, but the apples Rulfio brought from Cullero a few days ago might still be around.”

At least Corvo could safely assume he _was_ in Serkonos now.

“Right,” he said, hoping that Thomas would take him in the direction of the food. When he just looked at Corvo expectantly, Corvo said, “Lead on.”

That earned Corvo a strange look, a confused furrow of his brows that was gone as quickly as the grin of a few moments earlier. “This way.”

Corvo studied the large manor surreptitiously as Thomas led him away. He’d been wandering the halls (an attempt to get his bearings, though in reality he’d spent more time confused by his surroundings than anything else) when Thomas had happened upon him. The house had probably belonged to a noble family at some point; Corvo assumed Daud had killed the original owners, or perhaps extorted it from them. There was little in the way of decoration, beyond the moulding and other designs typical of upper class homes; darker patches at fairly regular intervals on the walls suggested that portraits or other art had once adorned them, though they were nowhere in evidence now.

A few other men were in the large kitchen, preparing what Corvo assumed was the midday meal.

“Ah, Mas- Daud,” a man said. He looked the youngest of the Whalers Corvo had seen so far, perhaps not even twenty. “I saved some breakfast for you.” He pointed with his knife at a plate set on the table just inside the door before resuming his chopping.

“Thanks,” Corvo said.

The man flashed a grin at him. “Oh, it was nothing. Kent almost came to blows with me over the last of the bacon, but otherwise...”

This prompted a protest from another of the men, who was doing something at the stove. As the pair bantered back and forth, Corvo headed for the food. He listened with half an ear, learning that the one who’d spoken first was Aedan, the one at the stove was Kent, and the third was Petro.

How many Whalers were there? He’d snuck past a number of them on his way across the Flooded District; more than a score. Had they all followed Daud to- an old estate in the Serkonan countryside?

“Daud,” Thomas said, drawing Corvo from his thoughts. Even hearing the name in passing was enough to catch Corvo’s attention - it was hard to forget the man who’d killed the one person you’d sworn to protect - which was fortunate, as he’d be called that until he figured out how to get his own body back or managed to explain the strange situation.

“What is it?”

“It’s nearly time for the novices’ daily exercise,” Thomas said.

“Right,” Corvo said, because of course it was. Overseeing that would probably require him to know the names of these novices, and he barely had a handle on the ones he knew so far. “My second can handle that.”

Thomas blinked. “I- can, yes. As you wish.”

Corvo hoped his shock didn’t show on his face. Thomas was too young to be Daud’s second, surely?

“Good. I have- something to look into.” He brought his dirty dishes to the nearby sink and added them to stack before striding away with the air of someone on an urgent mission. It was a talent he’d perfected as Royal Protector, when he didn’t want to be interrupted; it worked well enough here to cover his retreat.

* * *

Daud wasn’t entirely certain how he’d ended up observing Emily’s lessons with her tutor, Callista, but he thought it had something to do with the impromptu choking fit that had followed his attempt to tell Emily the truth.

Various other efforts to say his own name, or otherwise allude to his identity, had met with similar failure, and only served to make Emily concerned about his health. Daud couldn’t dissuade her from fretting over him; citing ‘his’ role as Royal Protector and the resulting inability to take a day off to rest had led to Emily installing him in an armchair in the study with a mug of tea and a thick blanket so that he could “guard her from there”.

Emily glanced at him every so often, as did Callista, but Daud was otherwise left to his own thoughts.

Perhaps it was for the best that Daud couldn’t tell anyone the truth. He’d wanted to come back to Dunwall for various reasons, though not, as several higher-ranking Whalers saw fit to imply, because he wanted to see Corvo again. Daud’s life wasn’t particularly valuable, but he owed Corvo for it all the same; he’d spend it in service to the Empress, acknowledged or not.

The Whalers-

Daud drained the last of his tea, ignoring the bitter taste; he’d let it sit too long. “I have several letters to write, Emily,” he said.

“You can write them here,” she said, patting the space on the desk next to her. It was a large desk, more suited to someone fully-grown. It was probably the same one Empress Jessamine had used.

Daud hesitated. While most of the Whalers had joined him closer to adulthood, he was fairly familiar with youthful curiosity. If he declined, it would likely only serve to make Emily more interested, especially since he doubted Corvo kept her in the dark about most of his duties. On the other hand, having Emily try to read what he wrote was the opposite of what he wanted, especially since his writing would be quite different than Corvo’s-

Callista saved the day, clearing her throat pointedly.

“I wouldn’t want to distract you from your lessons,” Daud said. “It’s just a few responses to inquiries from nosy nobles, in any case. But if I’m to restrict myself to lighter duties only...”

Emily sighed and turned back to her work. “Fine.” She waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Of course,” Daud said, and left as quickly as he thought reasonable.

There had been a reorganization of the Tower’s interior since Emily had taken the throne. Among other things, the royal suite no longer overlooked the entrance hall- likely because the balcony had been deemed a security risk. Daud approved of those measures, though they made his half-forgotten memories of the Tower’s floor plans even more useless.

He spent a good fifteen minutes wandering the halls, trying to find Corvo’s office before he finally stumbled upon it. It was a small room tucked away from the busier hallways and staircases, undecorated aside from several drawings by Emily. The bookshelves were filled with volumes of history, for the most part; they looked untouched.

Corvo’s desk was a mess. Daud frowned to see it. Considering the man had ghosted through Dunwall without any witnesses in his quest to restore Emily Kaldwin to the throne, this kind of disarray offended Daud’s sensibilities. If Corvo were one of his men and he kept his records like this-

Well, he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. By all accounts, the Royal Protector trusted few people, burned twice by betrayal as he had been. That he should take on more than he could handle rather than relying on others was only to be expected.

Daud skimmed over the documents with the same practiced ease that he used to go through the files of his targets (or less trustworthy clients). In this case he had the luxury to sort them, as leaving the mess more or less intact to hide the fact that someone had looked through it was unnecessary. If- _when_ \- Corvo returned to his body, he’d already know that Daud had gone through his things.

Pressing security matters pertaining to the Empress or the Tower made one pile - thankfully small - while most of the useless, formal correspondence from nobles went into another; a third stack was for documents that Corvo had written, and the rest was relegated to the topmost desk drawer.

This accomplished, Daud pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started composing his letter to Thomas. He used their newest cipher, detailing the current state of affairs, and signed his own name with some trepidation. But his hand didn’t cramp, and he didn’t start coughing uncontrollably, so apparently committing these details to paper in code was acceptable.

After a moment’s thought, he sealed it with the Royal Protector’s insignia, then tucked it into his coat to be sent to Serkonos at the earliest opportunity.

He spent the rest of the afternoon examining Corvo’s writing. Unlike his personal effects, his writing was a great deal neater than Daud’s, possibly because it was expected of someone of his station. It had been a while since Daud had last had to forge anyone’s hand, but by the time the sun began its descent towards the horizon, he felt reasonably confident that he could pull it off.

His hand ached from holding the pen for so long and he absently flexed his fingers, which seemed on the verge of cramping, as he fed the papers full of practice into the fire. The knuckles seemed stiff, perhaps from Corvo’s time in Coldridge.

Daud frowned as he watched the fire, rows of progressively tidier writing consumed by the flames. He’d never regretted killing someone before, not really; nor had he given any consideration to those unfortunate enough to take the fall for his deeds before. But the Empress was different. Corvo was different.

A clock tolled the hour from a nearby room, drawing Daud from his thoughts. He pushed them aside; that kind of thinking ( _not_ brooding, no matter what Hobson or those other ingrates who called themselves Whalers might claim) wasn’t helpful, and he needed his wits about him if he was going to be filling Corvo’s place for the foreseeable future.

The most pressing matter: attending dinner with the Empress.

* * *

Someone brought Corvo lunch in his room, a flavourful vegetable soup that he downed with relish, despite the fact that he’d had the leftover breakfast less than an hour earlier.

The manor had three stories. The first was comprised of mainly public spaces: the kitchen, the dining room, various other large spaces meant for entertaining. There was even a modest ballroom, of all things. Corvo wondered, briefly, who the original owners had been, but no portraits or other indications of their identities remained that he could find.

The upper floors had more private rooms - dormitories and a few single rooms on the second, suites that had been converted into individual rooms on the third. Daud’s room was one of the latter.

Corvo had examined the contents of the single chest more closely, but besides turning up a few more munitions (sleep darts, canisters of some kind of powder, a spare crossbow bolt or two) it was a largely uninformative venture. The desk was similarly useless. The only item of interest that Corvo had found was Daud’s journal, the same worn, leather-bound volume that he’d flipped through in Daud’s sparse quarters back in the Flooded District.

The entries were undated, but going from the log that Corvo had read in Dunwall, nothing of particular note had happened in the months since then. The page immediately after that had been ripped out, leaving only the jagged edge; those following it mainly detailed Daud’s decision to leave Dunwall, and complaints about the ship he and the Whalers took from the city or about the difficulties establishing themselves here. It seemed that Daud actually intended to try his hand at growing grapes, of all things.

Frustrated, Corvo turned to exploring the estate. The gardens scattered across the lawn were sporadically tended; the ones furthest from the manor were overgrown and neglected, but those closer to the house were enthusiastically, if inexpertly, cared for. Crooked rows of vegetables grew outside the kitchen, and someone had planted flowers in the front garden.

A rudimentary sparring ring had been set up near the back fence, and as Corvo neared, he saw Thomas overseeing a handful of other men and women. Most of them were younger, but one or two were closer to Corvo’s age - the novices that Thomas had mentioned, presumably.

Before Corvo could make a stealthy retreat, Thomas noticed him. He only gave Corvo a brief nod before turning his attention back to the practicing assassins. Or would they be considered vintners now? Daud’s journal _had_ suggested he was done with killing people for coin, though it seemed the Whalers were still expected to maintain their skills.

Corvo continued on his walk, nodding and returning the greetings of various people doing- whatever they were doing. A couple of them were throwing sticks for a motley collection of dogs; the wolfhounds he’d seen in Rudshore had been joined by various mutts. Others tended the gardens or read in the shade or simply wandered around.

Beyond the fence around the lawns, acres of grapevines extended as far as he could see in nearly every direction. They supported the vintner claim, though the vines were as overgrown as some of the gardens. The only clear areas were the lawns surrounding the manor and the road that cut through the swathes of vineyard.

Unnerved by the pastoral domesticity of it all, Corvo returned to the manor.

Daud’s powers were fairly similar to Corvo’s own, as far as he could tell. There was limited space to practice in Daud’s room, but his blinks, time bending and dark vision seemed familiar enough. The tethering ability that the Whalers had used to immobilize Corvo when Daud- killed Jessamine- was incredibly useful; he spent a good five minutes pulling objects from across the room to his hand, until he remembered the last time it had been used on him. The novelty wore off after that.

The one thing Daud seemed to lack was the Heart. When Corvo called upon his dark vision again, thinking that he had simply missed it in his initial investigation of Daud’s room, his mark throbbed as he scanned the surrounding area. Distantly, he thought he could make out the white outline of a bone charm; the throbbing lessened when he looked away, but picked up again when Corvo faced that direction once more.

Did Daud not have a Heart, or something like it? Corvo’s augmented dark vision had allowed him to see runes or bone charms through walls if he was close enough, the same as any other useful item, but the Heart was what led him to them. Daud’s version of the power seemed to render the Heart unnecessary.

Corvo wondered what it meant.

A more thorough examination of the immediate area revealed several more bone charms close to him, but no runes. Corvo frowned, annoyed that Daud apparently didn’t maintain a shrine. That raised a few other questions, though none of them were of any interest to Corvo at the moment.

A knock on the door interrupted him and Corvo released the power automatically. The mark’s glow faded, though it wasn’t like Corvo had any fear of the wrong people discovering his heresy here.

“Sir? Dinner’s ready,” an unfamiliar voice said.

“I’ll be right there,” Corvo said.

Dinner was an interesting experience. The dining room was large enough that two long tables could fit in the space, though it was a bit cramped. It seemed more like a mess hall than a formal dining area, but it suited whatever Daud had built here.

The long benches were full, more people than Corvo had seen earlier; or perhaps scattered individually or in small groups around the property, they had seemed less numerous. Either way, it was a comfortable atmosphere, voices filling the space with chatter.

As soon as Corvo took his place at the head of one of the tables, the Whalers started to serve themselves and eat. Thomas sat on Corvo’s right; a Serkonan sat on his left. Hobson was a few seats down from Thomas.

“He looks fine, Thomas,” the man on the Serkonan’s left said. “He probably just overslept because he was up all night brooding again.”

Thomas frowned at the speaker. The Serkonan looked at Corvo calmly, but there was an air of expectation about him.

“What was that?” Corvo said; it came out much more harshly than he’d intended, coloured in Daud’s rough voice, but he couldn’t apologize either.

“Ah- nothing,” the speaker said quickly, busying himself with taking some food. No one else batted any eyelash, and the tension in the air seemed to ease.

Corvo served himself, listening to the flow of the conversation around him. Most of the topics weren’t interesting, but he learned that the Serkonan’s name was Rulfio, and the man on his other side was Rinaldo, which was something.

The discussion turned to Cullero, and Corvo took the time to interject, “I want to go to the city as soon as possible.”

The three Whalers looked at him in surprise. Rulfio recovered first: “I was planning to go with whoever wanted to come the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s acceptable,” Corvo said.

Rulfio nodded slowly. “Right.”

“Hobson,” Rinaldo said, drawing the man’s attention, “are you sure Daud’s all right? He just agreed to go to the city. Like, voluntarily. Without any persuading.”

“Maybe I’m tired of your company,” Corvo said, taking a gamble. They already thought he was out of sorts, so if he’d said the wrong thing, hopefully it wouldn’t turn out too badly.

Hobson snorted. “See, he’s fine.” He turned back to the conversation he’d been having with his neighbour, though no one could miss his obvious eye roll.

The rest of the dinner passed without incident, Corvo contributing only when he was addressed. By the time it was over, he felt incredibly exhausted and took the first opportunity to leave that he could.

Despite the fact that he’d slept later than he was accustomed to, Corvo was asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.

* * *

Daud ate with Emily and Callista, then spent the evening hours at Emily’s side, overseeing her homework and, at one point, helping her colour a picture. He half-expected to read her a bedtime story, though she was perhaps too old for such things. She didn’t ask for one, at any rate, but the goodnight kiss that she pecked on his cheek was even more excruciating than reading her a story would have been.

The day’s activities, uneventful as they’d been, weighed heavily upon him. Daud was a practical and adaptable man, but waking up in the body of another person had to be a shock for anyone; waking in _Corvo Attano’s_ body even more so.

He couldn’t afford any mistakes, though. The letter he’d written earlier pressed against his chest; the sooner he sent it off to Serkonos, the better.

With that thought in mind, Daud made his way back to Corvo’s private room. His mark throbbed when he entered, and a particularly loud thumping sound drew his attention to the bed.

The Heart pounded wildly when he picked it up again, though it eased as he held it gingerly.

“Why have you returned to this place?” the Heart whispered; Daud’s skin crawled at the sound of its voice. It was familiar, but he refused to acknowledge that fact.

“I assume you mean Dunwall, or the Tower,” Daud said, studying the room again. He’d had little time to do so between waking and finding the Heart, and Emily hovering concernedly over him.

“You have done violence, but... There is a different dream in your heart.”

Daud’s hand tightened involuntarily, squeezing the organ hard; the thing made no protest at the abuse, but Daud felt guilty about it a moment later. He placed it carefully on the bedside table, then turned his attention to the wardrobe.

It contained what he sought, a plain jacket that wouldn’t stand out at a glance. He didn’t intend to allow anyone even that much, but plans had a way of going awry. Daud stripped swiftly out of the Royal Protector’s uniform, steadfastly ignoring the unease that came with undressing in front of the Heart. It had no eyes, and even if it could somehow observe its surroundings, it had already seen Corvo’s body before-

Daud stopped that train of thought and pulled on the nondescript clothes as fast as he could. A scarf took care of the lower part of his face, and a hood his hair. It was the best disguise that he could manage on such short notice, though a mask would have been more familiar.

It was also more damning. He doubted the masked felon had faded from the public consciousness, for all that their connection to the disappearances of various prominent citizens was tenuous at best, and the industrial masks worn by the Whalers were just as infamous.

Neither Daud nor Emily’s rooms had a balcony, but the windows opened to a short ledge that spanned the exterior of the Tower. After checking that the door to his room was locked, Daud extinguished the lamps and made for the window.

The Heart glowed faintly, a pale light from within shining through the round pane of glass set into the muscle. With a grimace, Daud detoured to the table and tucked the thing into his pocket.

Dunwall was distinctly cooler than Daud had become accustomed to. Less than a year after leaving the blasted city, and already Daud was used to the warmth of the Serkonan sun. He tucked the scarf more securely around his neck and pulled the window nearly shut behind himself before creeping along the ledge.

The stink of the Wrenhaven was stronger out here, carried by the wind plucking at his clothes. Daud ignored it as best he could, half of his disgust aimed at himself for becoming soft so quickly.

It took longer than he would have liked to find a way into the city proper. The defenses Burrows had erected in his paranoid bid for safety had been removed; ironically, their removal made navigating the area surrounding the Tower more difficult, as there were few points within reach of his transversals. Corvo’s doing, no doubt.

Once he left the Tower, however, moving across Dunwall was as easy as he recalled. At one point, though, he misjudged the distance from one rooftop to the next and nearly plummeted five stories into the street. Daud barely managed to catch himself, and he slumped atop the tiles for a few moments, body aching from the scramble to keep himself from falling.

“For all your similarities, there are fundamental differences as well,” the Heart whispered. The words would have been haughty, but it was beating nearly as frantically as Daud’s own after the brief scare.

“Our powers are different, you mean,” Daud said, staring up at the clouds. It was hard to see the stars even on a cloudless night in Dunwall, unless one observed them from the abandoned districts. The lights from the city were too bright otherwise. From what Daud had heard, the rehabilitation of Rudshore had already begun, so perhaps even that was no longer possible.

It was probably for the best. Stargazing was about all the ruined district had had going for it.

“There are fundamental differences,” the Heart reiterated helpfully.

Daud exhaled heavily and rose to his feet. He hadn’t had much time for stargazing even when he was squatting in Rudshore; staring at clouds while he pretended to be Royal Protector was an inexcusable waste of time.

There were few ships at the docks, though more than there had been during the worst of the plague. The smugglers who had made a killing slipping through the blockade were less numerous now, but he managed to locate one with minimal difficulty.

Convincing them to take his letter to the vineyard was a bit harder, but the Royal Protector had considerable gold at his disposal and Daud had come prepared. He silently promised to pay Corvo back when he got the chance.

“Consorting with thieves and murderers,” the Heart murmured with obvious disapproval as Daud picked his way back across the rooftops.

“I still am a murderer, in case you forgot,” Daud said scathingly, his words lost to the wind and the night. Oceans of blood, and he’d never be clean.

“There is no turning back from the path you chose,” the Heart agreed.

Daud barely resisted the urge to hurl it away, or perhaps crush it beneath his heel. The rest of the trip back to the Tower passed in silence.

He left the cursed thing in the jacket when he made it to Corvo’s room, shutting it into the wardrobe to give himself some semblance of privacy. He thought he’d made his peace with the supernatural constantly watching over him years ago, but it seemed there was a wealth of difference between a capricious deity and- and-

Daud gritted his teeth, shying away from that thought and focussing on getting some rest. Sleep was, mercifully, swift in coming.


	2. Chapter 2

Daud had been hoping that the past day had been some kind of strange hallucination or perhaps another of the Outsider’s double-edged “gifts”, allowing him a strange glimpse into the life of the man who’d spared Daud’s life. Waking up in Corvo’s bed, still occupying Corvo’s body, didn’t exactly disprove either of those theories (particularly the latter) but if this was all a disturbing fever dream, Daud could only hope his Void-enhanced constitution purged whatever was causing it from his system soon.

He allowed himself a few moments of staring up at the unfamiliar ceiling before pushing himself out of bed. He didn’t want Emily to think that he was sick again, though stepping into the Royal Protector’s boots was an even more daunting prospect.

Daud started with what he knew, putting on Corvo’s literal boots along with the rest of his uniform. Another brief hesitation followed before he tucked the Heart into the blue coat. His hair was a snarl of tangles when he caught sight of it in the mirror; Daud irritably ran a brush through it, not wanting a repeat of the previous day, then tied it back in a neat tail.

The entire time, the Heart beat steadily in counterpoint to his own. It was unnerving at first, but as the thing made no helpful comments, Daud was accustomed to the feeling by the time he made his way to the busier corridors of the Tower

“The Guard Captain both anticipates and dreads Corvo’s daily visits,” the Heart whispered as he descended a flight of stairs. “It is a reprieve, but the workload has usually increased when Corvo leaves.”

Daud managed not to trip down to the next landing. The eyes of a passing servant darted over, but moved on just as swiftly when they realized his identity- _supposed_ identity. If they’d realized it was Daud, they probably would have frozen in fear, or run away screaming. On the rare occasions servants had interrupted his jobs in the past, those had been the usual reactions, in any case.

Geoff Curnow’s office was located on the next floor. It was early, but Curnow’s door was open and he was seated at his desk when Daud glanced within.

“Ah, Corvo,” Curnow said, catching sight of him; Daud took it as an invitation to enter, and did so.

“Captain Curnow.”

“Geoff, please,” Curnow said. “Are you here for our meeting? It’s a bit early.”

Daud shrugged, thinking quickly. “I missed yesterday’s. Thought I’d make up for it today.”

“Of course. Are you still feeling out of sorts? Only, I don’t think you’ve ever missed breakfast with Her Majesty before,” he added, at Daud’s blank look. “Apart from yesterday, that is.”

“Yes,” Daud said slowly, inwardly cursing the Heart. It served him right for trusting the cursed thing, yet he couldn’t help but blame it for the situation all the same. If it hadn’t mentioned Curnow- “I’ve mostly recovered, but I don’t want to set myself off again.”

Curnow nodded. “Well, nothing went horribly wrong in your absence, but it might be too early for you to relax that heightened paranoia of yours quite yet. Yesterday may have just been a fluke, though I’d like to think the measures we’ve been taking to ensure the Empress’ security are effective.”

Daud snorted in spite of himself, which seemed to be the reaction that Curnow had aimed for; the man cracked a smile in return.

“At any rate, here’s what you missed...”

* * *

The meeting with Curnow only confirmed what Daud had already suspected: Corvo took far too much on himself, either unwilling or unable to rely on others. And that was just the duties and tasks that Curnow had mentioned; Daud didn’t doubt that there were other responsibilities that weren’t Curnow’s concern or that he hadn’t thought to mention that Corvo attended to as well.

Daud turned the thought over as he made his way back to Corvo's office. It wasn’t a sustainable solution. Corvo was only one man.

No one had been appointed to replace Burrows, as far as Daud could tell. Who could be relied upon to take up the position? None of Burrows’ agents. How would someone of a suitable inclination be found otherwise? How could their loyalty be assured?

Daud shook his head, staring at the stacks of correspondence on Corvo’s desk without really seeing them. The question of the next Royal Spymaster wasn’t his to answer, though Emily certainly needed one. He would deal with what he could while he was here, and it would have to be enough.

On that note, he dug through the pile of letters from various nobles in search of one that had caught his eye the day before. The Boyle name was conspicuous in its absence, though the last Pendleton - Celia, apparently - had sent an overture. Neither of those prominent families interested him, however. Instead, he pulled out the letter from the Carmines, a family that had been nearly as integral to Dunwall’s founding as the Pendletons, if not quite as successful. They weren’t left clinging to the vestiges of influence, tapped-dry mines and staggering debts either, so perhaps the trade off wasn’t so bad.

Daud wrote his acceptance of the Carmines’ invitation to dine carefully. When he compared it to letters written by Corvo himself, the writing looked similar enough to satisfy Daud’s exacting standards. He handed it off to a servant to be delivered as soon as possible, then made his way to the small dining room for lunch.

He took the meal with Emily, to make up for missing breakfast. He apologized to her for his absence, which she accepted gracefully. Spending time with her was still- incredibly strange. Guilt was no longer foreign to Daud (if it had ever been) yet every moment he spent in her company made it weigh heavier. He hadn’t asked to wake up in Corvo’s body, and his attempts to convey his real identity had failed, but that didn’t change the fact that he was deceiving her.

Daud told himself it was a necessary deception. Though similar platitudes had worked wonders for him in the past, this time the words rang hollow. He resolutely ignored the thought that this time the circumstances were probably the most fraught he’d experienced. Fraught with _what_ , he didn’t even want to begin to contemplate.

Fortunately, there were plenty of tasks to divert him. He spent the afternoon hours familiarizing himself with the Tower and the parts of Corvo’s routine that he’d managed to uncover from Curnow and Emily.

Security had been tight even before Daud had killed the Empress and the ensuing interregnum, and that was without even taking the Royal Protector into account. It was part of the reason why Daud had wanted the Empress alone when he killed her. Burrows had used the excuse of the plague to send Corvo away from Dunwall, which was a step further than Daud had expected, but knowing that Corvo wouldn’t be a factor in Jessamine’s protection at all had eased his mind. Daud could have taken Corvo in a fight, of that he had no doubt; even without the aid of the Whalers, the abilities granted by the Outsider’s mark would have assured his triumph.

But everyone got lucky, and men as competent, as brutally efficient as Corvo, often seemed luckier than most. Daud had wondered, when the forward scouts had reported the Royal Protector’s early return, if it was luck or misfortune that had brought Corvo back to Dunwall that day.

Regardless of which, the results of Daud’s success and Corvo’s failure were obvious in the changes around Dunwall Tower. Corvo’s experience sneaking in to expose the Regent’s corruption and betrayal must have given him further insight into the holes within its security. The patrols were random, the rosters and routes changing every couple of days; shared fireplaces had been bricked over on one or both sides; rooms with balconies were watched more carefully, and were used for less important functions.

Burrows’ safe room on the roof was still intact, though it had been repurposed as a laboratory for Sokolov and- Piero Joplin. Daud stared when he noticed the latter, an admittedly brilliant, though disgraced, natural philosopher. He was the one who’d developed the wristbows the Whalers used; thinking back on it, Daud realized that Corvo’s custom gear (particularly that ghoulish mask) had likely been Joplin’s work as well.

The pair of scientists bickered as they worked on some kind of device that, he gathered, would speed the process of manufacturing more of the plague cure. Daud had some familiarity with both of them - Sokolov from the season or so Daud had spent at the Academy, Joplin from commissioning his work - and the atmosphere seemed positive, despite their antagonism.

“Ah, Corvo!” Sokolov said, catching sight of him lingering in the doorway. “Finally come to let me examine your mark?” He set down the glass vessel he’d been examining, striding over swiftly before Daud could make an escape.

This, Daud remembered from his time at the Academy as well; it had contributed not insignificantly to his departure from the school’s halls. “I just wanted to check on your progress,” he said, crossing his arms.

“No lingering ill effects from yesterday?” Joplin added, coming over as well. His eyes looked unnaturally large behind the thick lenses of his spectacles; it had never bothered Daud before, but now he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was under a magnifying glass, about to be laid bare for the pair of them to vivisect.

“Nothing,” Daud said. “Must have been something I ate.”

“I’d heard the mark made one immune to most toxins,” Sokolov said, stepping further into Daud’s space. On his left side, of course. His gaze was focussed on Daud’s marked hand, though the mark itself was hidden beneath the gloves; naturally, he missed the expression of annoyance on Daud’s face as a result.

“You must be nearly finished, if you have time to fuss over me,” Daud said, looking pointedly at their abandoned work.

He was coming to regret venturing up here more and more with each passing second. At least Joplin wasn’t so obsessed with the Outsider or his mark. Though the Outsider had hinted that much of Joplin’s brilliant inspiration came from dreams the creature gave to him. The downside was, of course, the brain fevers that afflicted him. The mark would probably have been kinder, but the Outsider was never kind for the sake of kindness.

“I need a break from working with the likes of _him_ ,” Sokolov grumbled dramatically. Daud resisted the urge to roll his eyes; it was surprising Sokolov didn’t throw up his hands or stomp his foot like a petulant child.

“I believe that’s my line,” Joplin said. “You are categorically incapable of sharing a workspace, much less ideas or credit!”

Sokolov rounded on him, his admittedly impressive facial hair bristling with outrage, and Daud took the opportunity to escape while they were distracted.

Emily found him as he headed for the stairs, intent on returning to the Tower proper. She ran up to him, throwing her arms around his waist. After a tense second, Daud returned the embrace, awkwardly curling an arm around her shoulders.

“There you are!” she said brightly, stepping back to smile up at him. “I was looking all over for you.”

“I just wanted to check up on Joplin and Sokolov,” Daud said, letting his hands fall limp at his sides.

“Jop-? Oh, you mean Piero. Are they still arguing?”

“Do they ever stop?” Daud asked; it was a serious question.

Emily laughed. “I suppose you’re right. But it seems to work! And it’s been nearly two weeks since the last explosion, I heard the maids talking about it this morning.”

“That’s great,” Daud said blankly, causing Emily to laugh again. He’d assumed the lab was exceptionally dirty, but in hindsight the blackened marks had probably been scorched into the walls and floor.

“Are you hungry? I think the cook made your favourite today,” Emily said, curling her hand in his own and leading him down the stairs.

Dinner was a competent offering of a classic Serkonan dish. It had been years since Daud had last tasted it; he couldn’t cook himself, and the Whalers who did most of the cooking hadn’t yet mastered Serkonan cuisine.

It brought with it a surprising wave of homesickness, the sense memory strong enough to remind him of _home_ \- not the gang’s hideout in Karnaca, certainly not the series of bases in Dunwall, nor the manor a few hours out from Cullero, though that last was getting there - but the small house he’d lived in with his mother, years and years ago.

Calling the meal competent was damning it with faint praise. The cook’s recipe bore such close resemblance to his mother’s that when Daud closed his eyes he could almost imagine himself back in that tiny village, seated at the crooked table across from his mother.

“Corvo? Are you all right?”

Emily sat across from him, watching him with obvious worry.

Daud cleared his throat, though his voice still sounded hoarse when he spoke: “I’m fine, Emily.”

“Is it not good? I remember you talking to Mother, before you left... You said that getting to eat this again was one of the only good things about going on the tour,” Emily said, biting her lip.

It was fortunate even a relatively casual dinner warranted fine silverware; Daud was certain anything inferior would have crumpled in his grip. As it was, he could hear the leather of his gloves creaking in protest from how hard he had his hands clenched.

“It’s very good,” Daud said. He didn’t trust himself to say anything else. Actions spoke louder than words, and what good would it do to apologize to her now? Coming from Corvo, it would only confuse her more, and Daud had no reliable way to explain himself. “I’ll have to pass the cook my compliments.”

That seemed to soothe Emily’s anxiety. She smiled. “I’m glad!”

“Would she smile so if she knew the truth,” the Heart whispered. It wasn’t a question.

Daud’s knife screeched across the fine china plate, making both of them wince. He took a deep breath, carefully setting the knife aside. His appetite was gone, but he forced himself to eat the rest of the meal mechanically, hardly tasting it.

If Emily noticed his distraction, she made no further mention of it.

* * *

Daud took the coward’s way out after dinner, pleading exhaustion. Emily kissed him good night on the cheek again, which did precisely nothing to ease his agitation.

Pacing the confines of Corvo’s suite was futile. The Heart seemed to beat in time with his footsteps; at least, some morbid part of him thought, it didn’t match his own pulse.

His brooding did pass the time until night had fallen over Dunwall. It was easy to slip out of the window then, clad in the same unremarkable outfit he’d worn the night before; using the mark to flit across the rooftops did manage to ease some of the tension from his shoulders.

Knowing that he was _interesting_ enough to gain the attention of a god, reviled though he might be by society as a result, had made Daud arrogant. He’d wanted to carve his mark into the world, the same way the Outsider had branded his mark into Daud’s skin.

Well, he’d gotten what he’d wanted, but as with many things in life, it wasn’t what he’d thought. Likewise, he cared little for the Outsider’s attention now, though he could admit (in the privacy of his own mind, and without acknowledging that the creature himself likely knew as well) that his indifference had been a necessary reaction, to protect himself from the Outsider’s own indifference and abandonment.

One of the few things - perhaps the _only_ thing - that hadn’t changed since Daud had first been marked was the exhilaration he felt when he drew on the Void and it responded, slowing time to a crawl or moving him from one point to another in the blink of an eye. Daud could ignore the thrill - he had to, otherwise it would be an unacceptable distraction - but it was always there.

He focussed on it now, enjoying the night in a way he couldn’t the day before. The situation was still far from ideal, particularly with Emily, but he had decided his course when he sent out the letters and that was one less weight on his shoulders. If he’d allowed himself to consider it, the irony of distracting himself from the girl he’d orphaned by using the same powers that had permitted him to execute the murder would have probably affected him more.

Fortunately, Daud was still proficient at compartmentalizing. Not as much so as he had been a year ago, but all the same-

Besides, Daud had some other task to accomplish. He might not take the same pride in the Outsider’s attention that he once had, but in the past the creature had offered Daud insights and opportunities that would have otherwise been closed to him. He hoped that the Outsider would do the same now if he found a shrine.

A scan of the streets immediately surrounding the Tower with his void gaze revealed that the district was devoid of runes and bone charms. It was surprising, given the way the forbidden trinkets tended to crop up everywhere, but Corvo could have collected them all already. With a shrug, Daud moved on.

The Estate District was empty as well, a fact that Daud found more surprising. Perched as he was at the top of the clock tower, Daud should have been able to sense at least one artifact. Nobles hoarded the things like any other trinket, unconcerned with Abbey reprisals that would have ruined a commoner caught with even one of the charms or runes.

“For all your similarities, there are fundamental differences as well,” the Heart whispered, repeating what it had said the night before.

“I heard you the first time,” Daud said, frowning down at the streets. His void gaze faded and he made no effort to reactivate it; he was starting to get a headache from overusing the ability. He hadn’t heard anything about the Overseers cracking down on Outsider worship, and even if they had, he couldn’t imagine them finding every single charm and rune.

If Corvo had them all hoarded somewhere, Daud had yet to find the stash. If another of the people marked by the Outsider was hoarding them, that was probably bad news. The only other person in Dunwall that Daud knew of was Granny Rags, and he hadn’t heard anything about her in the weeks after Emily’s coronation. Or had the Outsider marked another already?

The Heart was conspicuously silent as Daud mulled over the strange absence. Was it giving him the cold shoulder? No matter; he preferred silence to its cutting remarks.

Wondering about the missing runes was useless. He’d just have to find a shrine and hope that the Outsider would see fit to enlighten him - or at least drop a cryptic clue that would point him in the right direction.

Thus decided, Daud set his sights towards the poorer districts. They’d been the ones first quarantined after Burrows took power, the plague barriers erected before the citizens had the time to evacuate. It was little different from bricking up or clamping shut the entrances of infected, still-inhabited buildings, but the scale of it made the act somehow more despicable.

All the same, desperate people turned to the Outsider. It was surprising how quickly seemingly devout people, who attended the Abbey’s sermons diligently and minded their strictures, could have a shrine erected when times turned rough. Despite the Abbey’s best efforts, the old practices were not so easily forgotten.

It amounted to the same in the end. Strictures wouldn’t save a person any more than the Outsider would.

The district he found himself in was still dark. The plague barriers had been torn down, but the area had yet to be completely reclaimed. Some buildings were still sealed up, though the plague markers had been washed off the brick and stone. The red stains left behind by the paint were still faintly visible in the moonlight.

It had had a name at one point, but most people just referred to it as the Poor District now, a trend started by its inhabitants. Daud wondered how many of those inhabitants were left. Burrows had released the plague rats here, according to the information put forth by natural philosophers who had studied the disease’s progress through the city.

Crouched atop the crumbling building that marked the unofficial boundary of the district, Daud activated his void gaze. Unsurprisingly, no artifacts appeared in his sight.

He made his way to the street, at a loss. He’d found a few shrines here in the past; the things cropped up in forgotten and disused places, and there would be more than a few of those in this dark, dead district. If he could find one, even if it lacked a rune, perhaps the Outsider would appear to him anyway.

The night wasn’t quiet. The Wrenhaven lapped at its banks, a faint breeze whistled through the buildings and rats chittered in the corners and alleys. A few streets away, a dog barked furiously then fell silent. Daud’s footsteps were silent over the cobblestones, out of habit rather than any thought that he should be cautious, as he tried to orient himself.

He hadn’t ventured here often, the people here lacking the coin to hire his services or the infamy to warrant a price on their heads. Only when he’d first come to Dunwall and gone about making a name for himself had he walked these streets with any frequency; later, after the Outsider had marked him, he’d scoured them for shrines, along with the rest of the city. But that was years ago. Decades.

The buildings crowded close here, the streets winding in a disorderly, seemingly illogical fashion. Daud wandered through the alleys, hoping to spy a certain distinctive purple light spilling past a hanging shutter or through the cracks of a splintered door.

A bottle clattered ahead of him, followed by a lean hound that prowled into a shaft of moonlight a few metres away. It nosed at the ground, seemingly docile. Its sparse fur was stretched taut over its ribs. Hungry; probably starving. With his luck, desperation would overcome any instinctual hesitation to attack a human.

As long as Daud didn’t attract the beast’s attention-

Before he could even finish the thought, the hound’s head swung towards him and it snarled.

Daud drew on the mark, scanning the surrounding area for a suitable ledge or exposed vent within reach of a transversal.

The hound slammed into him, knocking Daud back several steps. His back hit the wall hard enough to force the breath from his lungs, but he had the presence of mind to bring his arm up to fend it off. Its powerful jaws snapped around his forearm rather than in his face.

“ _Fundamental differences_ ,” the Heart stressed, in rather the same tone Billie used to take when Daud did something she found particularly stupid.

“That’s really fucking helpful,” Daud snarled, trying to force the hound away from him. It clung stubbornly to his arm, and he resorted to kicking at it. The angle was hardly ideal, but he got lucky on the third try as the hound pulled away with a high whine.

Daud ignored the pain from its bite and transversed blindly in the opposite direction. He ran as soon as his feet touched the cobblestones some distance away, scanning the alley for a means of escape. The hound howled and gave chase behind him.

At least it wasn’t one of the Abbey’s trained beasts, as far as he could tell. The lack of an Overseer handler nearby, as well as its mixed appearance, suggested as much. He was lucky- if he’d gotten caught by Overseers, if one of them had had one of those blasted music boxes-

Thankfully, no one - Overseer or otherwise - came running despite the racket the cursed creature was making.

Daud scrambled up onto the first balcony he saw. It was clamped shut, but the balcony on the floor above it was not. Daud paused for breath as soon as he’d slammed the doors shut behind himself, ignoring the outraged barking from below.

The apartment he found himself in was a mess. Furniture overturned, possessions strewn across the floor, either from the hasty departure of its former inhabitants, enterprising looters, or some combination of the two. It had been a common sight in the Flooded District, and later throughout Dunwall, but it was still a bit shocking to be confronted by the familiar scene again. Despite the issues and conflicts that Daud knew of, both from his own investigations from Serkonos and what he’d learned from pretending to be Corvo, it had been too easy to fall for the façade of restoration and stability that surrounded Emily’s rule.

The plague was cured, but who knew how many had been killed? Sokolov and Piero might; the Outsider could, if he cared to know. Even those relatively untouched by the plague, on the other Isles or even just beyond Dunwall’s boundaries, had been affected by it. Dunwall’s power had been shaken, and not everyone saw Emily Kaldwin as their saviour.

There were some who had learned of Burrows’ treachery and condemned him only for his failure to hold on to the power he had attempted to seize for his own. There were some who thought to usurp the throne themselves, and Daud had no intention of allowing them to succeed.

His arm throbbed; the material was dark and wet with blood when he looked down, the pain from the hound’s bite exacerbated by how hard he had his hands clenched. With a slow exhale, he uncurled his fists.

“They had little time to pack,” the Heart murmured. “The neighbour’s boy started bleeding from the eyes the day before. It was already too late.”

Daud pulled the thing out of his coat. It seemed to beat more quickly than usual, the circle of glass lit from within.

“What do you want from me?” Daud muttered, frowning. He’d brought it along on this ill-fated trip to find a shrine; what else could it possibly want? How sentient _was_ it? Was it even capable of wanting?

“I am not alive - nor have I been given the gift of death.”

“Charming.” Daud grimaced and stepped further into the apartment. The front door wasn’t bricked over, which was promising. Hopefully he’d be able to find a way onto the roof, and make his way out of the district in that manner. He could find a shrine some other way.

As he stepped into the darkened hallway, the Heart pulsed even faster, the light flashing brighter in time with it.

“They worked their fingers until they were bloody, carving at the whale bone. The one who is all things never appeared to them,” the Heart whispered.

Daud stared down at it, then drew on the mark again. Red filtered over his vision, dispelling the shadows of the hallway, as he activated his void gaze. A rune twirled lazily below his feet, bright green against the crimson. It seemed to taunt him; as if he hadn’t scanned the area for runes or bone charms as soon as he entered it.

He sighed again. “This must be another of those ‘fundamental differences’,” he said, making for the stairs to the floor below. There was no reply.

The Heart beat faster and faster as he approached the apartment with the rune, nearly shaking out of his hand as he came to a halt before the door. Someone had attempted to barricade it, but the boards nailed haphazardly across the opening had been broken down at some point. The door itself hung on its hinges. As the void gaze (or was Corvo’s version called something else entirely?) faded, Daud noticed the eerie purple light characteristic of shrines to the Outsider spilling past the doorway.

He stepped inside, splintered wood crunching beneath his boots, and walked over to the shrine erected in the far corner. The walls were covered with the usual ravings, _the Outsider walks among us_ and _blood from the eyes!_ scrawled in dubious red on every available surface. A corpse slumped at the foot of the altar, skeletal hand still raised to its surface. The rune hovered just above its fingertips, hissing its strange music.

The Heart stilled when Daud picked up the rune. He tensed as well, waiting for- something. The Outsider to appear, preferably to throw him a bone or two, probably to taunt him.

But as the seconds ticked past and no unnatural darkness bloomed before him, Daud came to the unwelcome realization that the deity wouldn’t make an appearance after all. A bitter, disbelieving bark of laughter escaped his throat.

“Typical,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. The Outsider had spoken to him for the first time in _years_ after he killed the Empress, but that didn’t mean their little talks would continue. Yet, in spite of the lengthy absence of the creature’s attention, it had only taken a matter of days for Daud to come to expect it once more.

Daud dropped the rune back onto the altar. It landed with a dull thud, dislodging the corpse. The hissing music did not resume, and the rune simply laid, inert, on the wooden surface.

“He is everywhere and nowhere,” the Heart whispered.

“I suppose it’d be too much to hope for him to be _here_ and _now_ ,” Daud snapped, switching his glare to the Heart. It thumped slowly in his fingers, unconcerned with his annoyance- a lot like another supernatural entity that Daud was familiar with. Daud probably deserved it, at least in the Heart’s case.

He stuffed the thing into his jacket, then stepped with deliberate care around the corpse. His pace was measured as he made his way to the roof, belying the fury and confusion coursing through him.

What did the Outsider’s absence _mean_? Was he bored with Daud again? Did he have nothing to do with Daud’s current predicament? But he must have been aware of it, at the very least. Otherwise he would surely have appeared to Daud, mistaking him for Corvo; Daud couldn’t imagine that the Outsider would have lost interest in Corvo less than a year after marking him. Someone like Corvo, who had spared a life as worthless as Daud’s and made his enemies disappear rather than resort to murder, would surely hold the Outsider’s attention for years to come.

Was this the doing of another person the Outsider had marked? There was some overlap between the abilities of the Outsider’s chosen, or at least similarities between them; Corvo’s powers were not so different from Daud’s own. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that someone could have the ability to displace the consciousness of another; Delilah had used her powers to possess people through her paintings.

If this was the work of a marked person, that led to the question of _why_. Why put Daud’s consciousness in Corvo’s body? What had happened to Corvo’s consciousness? Or Daud’s body? If this was some kind of malicious plot-

The odds of the Outsider warning Daud of it were about even; perhaps weighed more heavily in the wrong direction. Daud would like to think that if he were in danger from inhabiting Corvo’s body, the Outsider would at least leave him with some kind of infuriating warning; but the creature had seldom mentioned events that weren’t directly related to Daud’s actions. He’d never intervened to the extent of pointing Daud in the right direction before he’d given Daud Delilah’s name.

Daud pushed his misgivings away as he made his way back towards the Tower. There were more pressing matters to attend to than solving the problem of this strange body swap. While Daud loathed a mystery, he had other issues to resolve before he could focus any further attention away from Emily’s safety.


	3. Chapter 3

Corvo woke the morning of the trip to Cullero eager to leave. The Outsider hadn’t appeared in his dreams, apart from that mostly-forgotten fragment the morning he’d woken in Daud’s body, and Corvo had yet to find so much as a rune, much less a shrine.

The course of the previous day had done little to soothe his anxiety, and much to increase his confusion. He wanted to leave Serkonos as soon as possible. Even if Daud was in Corvo’s body, the (former?) assassin couldn’t be trusted to protect Emily.

A group of Whalers had already assembled in the entrance hall when Corvo descended the stairs. They milled around talking as they waited, most pausing their conversations to greet Corvo when he walked into their midst.

“Here, for the road,” Aedan said, pressing a sandwich stuffed with cold sausage and lettuce into his hand.

“Thanks,” Corvo said, still a little bemused. Loyalty, he could understand, even if someone like Daud didn’t deserve it. But casual, thoughtful gestures like this one continued to throw him off. They suggested a certain familiarity, a deeper bond than mere commander and subordinate, that baffled Corvo.

“Where’s mine?” Dimitri said, peering over Aedan’s shoulder.

“Kitchen’s that way,” Aedan said pointedly, elbowing him.

“You know I can’t cook,” Dimitri said, his voice edging into a whine.

“And that’s my fault why?”

Corvo tore off a portion of the sandwich and gave it to Dimitri, then wandered off down the hallway in search of Rulfio. The senior Whaler seemed to be the unofficial leader of their expedition into the city, and Corvo wanted to get to Cullero sooner rather than later.

“-’re certain of this?” came Rulfio’s voice from the smaller sitting room.

“Not entirely,” Thomas said.

The conversation came to a lull as Corvo entered the room, both men turning to stare at him. Thomas looked away when Corvo glanced at him, but Rulfio met his gaze steadily.

“Daud,” Rulfio said, before the silence could become too charged. “Ready to depart?”

Corvo had the distinct feeling that he had been the subject of the pair’s conversation, but it hardly mattered. He’d be gone by the time the day was up.

“Everyone’s waiting by the front door,” Corvo said. “But if there’s something you need to discuss before we go-”

“No,” Thomas said, too quickly. “Just making conversation until everyone was ready.” He weathered the disbelieving looks Corvo and Rulfio levelled at him admirably, until a particularly loud exclamation from someone by the entrance broke the tension.

“Well, we’re losing daylight,” Rulfio said, and walked past Corvo into the hallway. “If anyone who wants to come isn’t here, they’ll just have to catch up later.”

Corvo followed him, trying not to twitch in surprise when Thomas fell into step at his side, a pace behind.

“I didn’t know you were coming, Thomas,” Corvo said.

“I like the estate, but I wanted a change of pace,” Thomas said, shrugging.

“-Yes,” Corvo said, after several long seconds of debating whether Daud would say ‘yeah’ or ‘yes’. Something uncomfortably close to hysteria rose in his chest at that thought; was he seriously considering the speech patterns of a notorious murderer so that he could throw the man’s suspicious subordinate off his scent? How was this his life?

He unwrapped the rest of the sandwich and took a bite, hoping to forestall further conversation. It was as palatable as the rest of the food Aedan and the other Whalers who cooked had made, and Corvo had to force himself to eat it slowly, just in case it was a deterrent to further talking.

The morning air was crisp, dew glistening on the leaves of the grapevines as the group walked briskly down the track. It was still early, the heat rising but nowhere near as stifling as it would be later in the day.

The estate was a few hours’ journey from Cullero. The first leg of the trip, Corvo had gathered, involved following the track to a country road, and then to a small town. From there they would hire a cart for the trip from the town to Cullero itself.

All too soon, the sandwich was gone. Fortunately, Thomas had moved ahead to join Rulfio, who walked at the head of their group. The pair didn’t seem to be discussing anything of import, though from his position near the back of the procession, Corvo couldn’t hope to hear anything they said.

Instead, he listened with half an ear to the conversation of the Whalers closest to him. It was something about the hounds that Corvo found boring; he could hear snatches of Aedan and Dimitri bickering from further ahead. He should probably have listened more closely, but he planned on being on the first ship to Dunwall that he could find, so it was difficult to muster any enthusiasm for the task.

Corvo found himself dwelling on his current predicament. He’d been in another person’s body before, but this was different. When he possessed someone, it felt like there was a layer between himself and their physical body. He could move their limbs, but not easily; it was awkward and muffled, like trying to manage a delicate task while wearing a pair of thick gloves. And Corvo was constantly aware that he wasn’t in his own body; he could feel the other person’s consciousness pressing against his own, trying to force him out.

Here, now, Daud’s body didn’t feel foreign. There was no one else inhabiting the space with him, no dissonance between his decision to make a movement and his- Daud’s- body executing it. There was no strain on his mana to maintain the possession; he’d been in Daud’s body for two days and there seemed to be no ill effects. Possessing a _rat_ for longer than a few minutes usually left him feeling a little drained, never mind a human.

“Oh, he’s brooding again,” a Whaler said in an undertone that, ironically, caught Corvo’s attention rather than evaded it. The man looked familiar, but most of them did by now; Corvo had no idea what his name was.

Corvo realized a frown had settled over his face, though it wasn’t directed at anyone in particular. He made no effort to mask it; Daud seemed like a grumpy person, if the offhand comments he’d overheard about brooding were anything to go by.

“Yeah, but not as bad as after the Empress-” a second Whaler (Kent?) put in.

“-Outsider’s eyes, of course not,” a third (Petro) hissed. “He hasn’t killed anyone in months.”

“Been almost a year, hasn’t it,” the first Whaler said.

Corvo pretended not to notice the trio glancing back at him. It had been almost a year since- Jessamine. Had Daud really not killed anyone since then?

“That long,” Petro muttered, as if he couldn’t quite believe it himself.

“I mean, if you believe he took down Delilah and her coven without killing anyone,” Kent(?) added.

Delilah? Was she a witch? They’d mentioned a coven-

“That’s what Thomas says,” Petro said. “He would know. He was there.”

“Glad I missed out. That place sounded shittier than the Flooded District.”

“And that’s saying something.”

The trio laughed, and the conversation moved on to someone called Lurk, who Daud had also not killed, apparently. They sounded like a former Whaler, who had possibly betrayed them.

Corvo tried to remember if he’d ever heard about someone named Delilah, but all he could come up with was a childhood friend of Jessamine. A former baker’s apprentice who had been dismissed a few years before Corvo arrived in Dunwall. He supposed she could have become a witch - it had been years, after all - but somehow it didn’t seem likely.

* * *

The ride from the town to Cullero was uneventful. Corvo kept to himself, silently thanking- well, not the Outsider, who probably had a hand in this somehow, nor Daud himself- thanking _something_ , the cosmos, maybe, that Daud apparently maintained a certain distance from his men. Corvo’s withdrawn behaviour wasn’t looked upon with suspicion, and the Whalers tried only briefly to engage him in conversation before his lacklustre replies dissuaded them.

It was a lot less comfortable than travelling by rail car, the sturdy wooden seats only a slight step up from the stone slabs of Coldridge’s cells, but there was something nostalgic about it. Even the rural town had reminded Corvo of his youth, of a few summers spent at his grandfather’s vineyard.

His grandfather’s house hadn’t been anywhere near as grand as the manor Daud had acquired (was squatting in?) but the vineyard had actually been maintained. Probably because Corvo’s grandfather hadn’t spent most of his adult life as a murderer and, as a result, had actual life skills.

Corvo pointedly ignored the thought that his own skills weren’t so far removed from Daud’s.

The sun was high overhead by the time they reached Cullero. Corvo had broken out the wide-brimmed hat he’d brought along to hopefully ensure some anonymity in the city, already sweating in the heat of the day. He’d worn the blue shirt again, which was a mistake; he should’ve put on something lighter.

The Whalers dispersed when they entered the city’s limits, going off alone or in groups to do whatever it was they did in the city. Rulfio told them to meet back at three o’clock.

Corvo shoved his hands in his pockets and set off in what he hoped was the direction of the poorer quarters. The gloves felt conspicuous in the heat, especially coupled with the short sleeves of his shirt- but it was better than baring the Outsider’s mark for anyone to see.

It was cooler in the shade. Corvo ducked into an alley, resting briefly before calling upon Daud’s version of dark vision. The mark throbbed intermittently as he scanned the surrounding area - a couple of runes, more bone charms. He made a mental note of the direction of the runes and released the power.

“Hey, you’re the Knife!” a young voice said, startling Corvo from his thoughts.

“No, I’m not,” Corvo said, sparing a second of surprise for the fact that denying his supposed identity was apparently acceptable. “I’m-”

Of course, trying to say his real name was still impossible.

The urchin, who had appeared from behind a garbage bin, stepped fully into viewed. They looked younger than Emily, and had a distinctly unimpressed expression on their face as they watched him cough uncontrollably.

“I guess if you don’t look too close it ain’t obvious,” the child said. “An’ that coughing’s not very scary.”

Corvo’s fit subsided and he slumped against the wall, probably thoroughly ruining the child’s impression of Daud. Fortunately, Corvo didn’t care about Daud’s reputation.

“If I am the Knife, why aren’t you running?”

“What, someone hire you to kill me?” The child rolled their eyes. “Your people said you’re done killing.”

Corvo stared.

“Yeah, that’s right! I heard them talking,” the child said, crossing their arms and jutting out their chin. “Right after they put down the gang that used to run this city. Y’know, the Cullero Killers.”

“That’s a worse name than the Whalers,” Corvo muttered.

“That’s what he said! Your second, uh- Thom?”

“Thomas,” Corvo said. Then, at the triumphant look on the child’s face, hastily added, “Not that I’m the Knife.”

“Sure. So if I wanted to join-”

“No,” Corvo said, horrified.

“That Thomas ain’t much older than me!”

Thomas had to be in his twenties, at least, for the sake of Corvo’s sanity. He didn’t want to even contemplate if Thomas wasn’t yet twenty. If this kid’s age was even in the double digits, Corvo would’ve been surprised.

“Well, he ain’t _that_ old,” the child said, when Corvo just looked at them. “Not like you, anyway,” they muttered mutinously.

“I’m not recruiting anymore.” Corvo was fairly certain that was true, in any case; and even if it wasn’t, he had no intention of bringing a child into Daud’s gang of lethal vintners. He turned away, hoping the child would take a hint.

“I know stuff!” the child cried desperately.

“Stuff,” Corvo repeated, because he had always been a soft touch for kids. “Such as-?”

“Y’know,” the child said, approaching warily. Their gaze darted to Corvo’s left hand, then away, then back again. “ _Stuff_.”

His own hand was free of the stark lines of the Outsider’s mark, or the faded, tattoo-like marks the Whalers sported, so at least the Outsider had yet to resort to marking children.

“Do you know where a shrine is?”

“Yeah!” the child said eagerly; the look of hope on their face was almost heartbreaking. It shuttered a moment later and they added, more gravely, “I mean, if I show you, you’ll let me join?”

“I’ll think about it,” Corvo lied, and only felt a little bad about it. Daud probably had no compunction about lying to children - he certainly didn’t have any qualms about killing Emily’s mother in front of her - so Corvo wouldn’t feel bad about lying to the kid while in Daud’s body either. He’d pass the child some coin, perhaps arrange for them to be looked after when he returned to Dunwall.

The child narrowed their eyes at him. Corvo stared back evenly, pointedly squashing that little niggling of guilt in his chest.

“Fine. ‘s this way.” The child turned and trotted off down the alley, away from the main street.

Corvo stared at their retreating back for a moment before following.

Cullero wasn’t a sprawling city like Dunwall, but Corvo ended up all turned around and rather thoroughly lost anyway as the child led him down alleys and through tenement buildings and even, briefly, into the sewers.

“It’s just a bit further, uh, sir,” the child said, correctly interpreting Corvo’s dubious expression and silence as they walked down the dank passage. It was cooler than the street above, at least; that was the only positive thing their current location had going for it. All it needed was a few weeper corpses and he could pretend to be back in Dunwall already.

They seemed to be headed in the right direction. A surreptitious check with Daud’s dark vision confirmed that a rune was nearby.

The child nimbly scaled a rusting ladder that looked identical to every other one that they’d passed, knocking against the grate overhead in an irregular sequence that could only have been a code.

A slow squealing picked up and the grate rattled open to reveal a woman at the control mechanism. Her eyes widened when she saw Corvo, but she seemed only surprised, not alarmed as Corvo would have expected. He lost sight of her as the child climbed up. A moment later, they ducked back down when Corvo made no move to follow.

“Come on! We’re almost there,” the child said.

He could hear, faintly, the hissing music that all unclaimed runes emitted. The more runes he’d found and the more he’d used the Outsider’s powers, he’d found his ears picking up the haunting sound from greater distances. He couldn’t see the violet light that signified a shrine, or any of the the rich fabric that worshipers of the Outsider seemed to inevitably find, however.

The woman spoke, the shape of her words obscured by the rune’s music.

“Why would he want to stay in the sewer?” the child demanded, scowling down at Corvo.

He needed to know what the Outsider had to say about his predicament, and since the deity had yet to appear in his dreams, visiting a shrine was the only way that was going to happen.

“ _Finally_ ,” the child said, with an exaggerated sigh that would have struck Corvo as funny in any other situation, as he climbed up the ladder.

The woman released the wheel as soon as Corvo climbed into the room, the rattle of the grate closing temporarily drowning out the rune’s music. She ducked her head in his direction before hurrying toward the door.

“The shrine’s that way,” the child said, pointing at the door. It was the only way out of the room, which was dingy and illuminated only dimly by a small lamp set in one corner. A fine layer of dirt, or perhaps accumulated layers of dust, covered the floor; it was otherwise empty.

Corvo shrugged and walked out, though he faltered in the doorway of the shack when he saw the courtyard beyond.

It contained the biggest shrine he’d ever seen, swoops of dark blue and violet fabric pinned to the walls of nearby dwellings. Lanterns littered the ground, set at seemingly random intervals around the courtyard so that the entire space was lit by their eerie light. The wood of the altar was weathered but well-cared for, carved with intricate designs that Corvo had only seen in books about Pandyssia or on the runes and bone charms themselves.

And the people. They were mainly older, but there were even a few children younger than Corvo’s guide in the crowd, which was steadily dispersing as Corvo stood frozen in the doorway. It wasn’t a frenzied exodus; most of the people gathered looked Corvo’s way, but they seemed unworried by the presence of a notorious assassin, rumours of reform aside. It reminded Corvo, absurdly, of people departing in the wake of one of the Abbey’s sermons.

“What about Overseers?” Corvo asked, as the last of the worshipers disappeared into the dwellings. They were a mixture of tenement buildings and ramshackle homes not unlike the shack where Corvo stood. Beyond that, Corvo couldn’t say; his attention was taken nearly entirely by the shrine.

The child squeezed past him, though they trod with greater care than they’d shown leading Corvo through the winding alleys and back ways of the city.

“Dunno if you noticed, but Cullero ain’t exactly a- what do they call Whitecliff? A bat- a bas-”

“Bastion,” Corvo said.

“Yeah, that. It ain’t exactly a _bastion_ of the Abbey. You think rich tourists want to be reminded of all that when they’re on holiday?”

Corvo stared down at the child in astonishment.

“That’s what my brother used to say, anyway,” the child muttered, glancing away and scuffing a bare, grubby foot against the ground. “The Overseers don’t come looking as long as we pay the tithes and attend the sermons.”

“Right,” Corvo said. His family had lived in Karnaca, for the most part. While it wasn’t so severe in its adherence to Abbey strictures and doctrines as Dunwall, the Serkonan capital certainly wasn’t as lax as Cullero seemed to be.

The child huffed. “Well, are you gonna do- whatever?” They waved a hand in the direction of the centre of the courtyard.

Corvo glanced back at the shrine.

It was strange to be here in the light of day, to know that the space had been occupied by a group of seemingly sane people. So different from Dunwall, where the shrines were hidden away and abandoned or forgotten, tended sparingly by the fanatical. He remembered, vividly, the shrine he’d visited on Kaldwin’s Bridge, and the crazed plague survivor he’d encountered there.

The sun was still visible past swathes of fabric; Corvo wondered what the courtyard looked like from above.

Offerings littered the space around the altar - carved wood and bone, a glittering collection of coin, bulging pouches containing Outsider-knew-what, a beautiful seashell, a vial of liquid that Corvo hoped was wine but suspected to be blood.

Corvo picked his way through the gifts carefully. The back of his neck itched. Most of the windows were covered at least partially by the fabric decorating the shrine, and the light within the courtyard made it nearly impossible for him to see through the glass, but he couldn’t stop imagining dozens of pairs of eyes on him as he approached the altar.

The rune hissed temptingly before him. Corvo’s hands closed around it before he’d made a conscious decision to do so. The darkness that bloomed immediately before him was blinding, drowning out the soft buzzing and eerie light of the violet lanterns as well as his awareness of the watching eyes- of any eyes, except the Void-dark gaze of the Outsider.

“Hello, Corvo,” the Outsider said. His lips quirked up at the edges, the faintest suggestion of a smile- or a smirk. The latter seemed far more likely. “You seem to have made yourself at home. Enjoying your vacation?”

“Vacation?” Corvo demanded, disbelieving. He couldn’t even muster his usual surprise for the fact that the Outsider continued to allow him to speak whenever the deity appeared before him, and had ever since Corvo had returned Emily to the Tower. “So this _was_ your doing?”

“You asked me for this.” A faint line had appeared between the Outsider’s brows, all hints of amusement gone, but Corvo barely noticed.

“I did not!”

The Outsider crossed his arms over his chest. “Not in so many words. You said you wanted some peace and quiet.”

Corvo- had said that, more than once, in a few discussions with the Outsider. It had been more of a wistful thought than anything; a rueful wish that Dunwall would heal. It was happening, Corvo had known that, but its recovery seemed so slow. Nearly six months, the same amount of time Burrows had held the reins of the city, and the damage he’d inflicted had not yet been completely undone.

“I did say that,” Corvo allowed, trying to rein in his temper. Getting angry at the Outsider was as productive as barking at the moon; probably more dangerous, though Corvo had never seen the Outsider lash out before. He didn’t doubt that the deity _could_ , but he’d never seen it.

More calmly, he said, “But I don’t understand how that translated to putting me in Daud’s body. And,” he added, remembering the assassin, “is Daud in my body, then?”

“Yes,” the Outsider said. “Daud is pretending to be you.” Corvo didn’t fail to notice that the Outsider ignored the first part of what he’d said, but he knew that prodding the Outsider for answers he was unwilling to give would only result in him leaving.

“What, did he want some action? Tired of pretending to be a vintner already?”

The Outsider shrugged. “Yes. And he wanted-” Dark eyes narrowed, and the deity fell silent.

“What?” Corvo asked after a few moments, when it became obvious that the Outsider wasn’t going to continue speaking. “What did he want?”

“Usually,” the Outsider said, “you’re more grateful for my gifts, Corvo.” The usual undertone of affection with which the Outsider spoke Corvo’s name was absent.

“I-” Corvo paused, trying to think of an appropriate response. “I didn’t expect to wake in the body of my enemy.”

The Outsider tilted his head. “Do you think Daud is your enemy?”

Corvo’s temper snapped again. “He killed Jessamine!”

The furrow of the Outsider’s brows deepened. “Yes, he did. And now you’ll have to rely on him to protect Emily.”

“Protect her?” Corvo repeated, his blood going cold. “Protect her from _what_?”

“I wonder if you’ll find out this time,” the Outsider said coolly, and disappeared.

Corvo stared at the space the Outsider had occupied, breathing hard. The rune creaked in his grasp. He hadn’t even thought to demand that the Outsider reverse the change, or even to ask if the change was reversible. The Outsider had said ‘vacation’, which implied that it was temporary, but that was before he’d left in a huff-

“Are you- done?” the child asked, sounding more uncertain than they had before.

“What did you hear?” Corvo demanded.

“N-nothing,” the child said, backing up a step. There was real fear in their eyes now, darting around the courtyard to find the closest escape.

Corvo took a breath, then another. None of this was their fault, and he wasn’t the type to take his anger out on a child.

“You just stood there,” the child added. “I said your name, but you didn’t even twitch.”

Corvo nodded, equal parts relieved and frustrated. Even if the child had only heard Corvo’s half of the conversation, they could have figured out Corvo’s identity. At this point, Corvo didn’t know if that would be a blessing or a curse.

“Can you tell me the way back?”

“I’ll show you the way,” the child said.

“You don’t have to.”

“You said I could join!”

Corvo exhaled. “I said I’d think about it.”

The child bit their lip, glaring fiercely at the ground. “I’ll still show you.”

“Thank you,” Corvo said. “I just- need a moment.”

The child tracked his progress back towards the shack with wary eyes, and made no protest when Corvo closed the door behind himself.

The rune clattered in a distinctly unsatisfying manner when Corvo hurled it at the nearest wall. It didn’t even have the grace to chip, much less shatter. In fact, it looked wholly unharmed, if a little dustier, which did little to soothe his anger.

Furious, Corvo tried to summon a swarm of rats to- he didn’t even know, destroy the rune?

Thomas appeared just beyond his outstretched fingertips instead.

 _Shit_ , Corvo thought, abruptly recalling that Daud had demonstrated the ability to summon his men.

“Sir?” Thomas said, his gaze returning to Corvo after a brief scan of their surroundings.

“I wanted to ask about Delilah,” Corvo said, blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

Thomas frowned. “What about Delilah?”

“What- did you think of her,” Corvo said. He couldn’t very well ask what had happened to her; Daud would have already known.

“She needed to be stopped,” Thomas said, looking at Corvo keenly. “She was crazy.”

 _Stopped from doing_ _what_ , Corvo couldn’t ask. “Yes, I suppose,” he said vaguely.

“Who are you talking to- oh,” the child said, stopping just inside the threshold, one hand still on the doorknob.

“Who’s this?” Thomas asked, looking between Corvo and the child with an expression Corvo lacked the patience or care to parse.

“I’m Sylvio! The newest recruit,” the child announced.

Thomas just looked at Corvo, not surprised, more- exasperated. As if he’d been expecting something like this.

Corvo tried to look back as casually as possible, as if he had been expecting this too and hadn’t just been throwing a tantrum and accidentally summoning one of his enemy’s suspicious subordinates. He couldn’t say how successful he was.

“What did the Outsider say to you?” Thomas asked. When Corvo looked at him blankly, thrown, he added with some impatience, “There’s a fallen rune and a massive shrine just outside. It’s a stretch, but I imagine the rune was probably hurled at the wall by someone.”

“Not me,” Sylvio said helpfully.

“You weren’t my first suspect,” Thomas assured him gravely before turning back to Corvo. “So?”

“Nothing helpful,” Corvo said irritably, ignoring the pang of guilt that accompanied the unkind words. The path he’d followed to return Emily to the throne had been greatly aided by the powers the Outsider had bestowed upon him, that much was true - but the deity was also responsible for Corvo’s current predicament. The same predicament that could, depending on how badly Daud did in Corvo’s body, result in undoing all of Corvo’s work.

“Ah,” Thomas said. “More cryptic bullshit?” He spoke as if he were quoting someone.

Daud, if Corvo had to guess, which was- surprising. But he was in no mood to decipher what that attitude could mean, so he only shrugged. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He stalked over to the sewer grate, hoping Thomas would take the hint.

Thomas dropped the subject as they made their way back through the sewer, speaking easily with Sylvio about Cullero and the Whalers. Despite that, Thomas seemed attentive enough to notice if Corvo tried to slip away.

It didn’t help that it was too hot to contemplate moving at a pace any faster than languid. Even keeping to the shade did little to alleviate the heat. His hands felt clammy in the gloves, but Corvo refused to remove them; he couldn’t trust that the rest of the city’s inhabitants would accept someone bearing the Outsider’s mark with the same equanimity as the worshipers he’d seen earlier.

Locating the docks was much easier than finding the shrine had been. The breeze off the water was a welcome relief, and Corvo barely noticed the stink of the nearby market. It wasn’t any worse than the Wrenhaven on a clear day, after all.

“Looking for anything in particular, Daud?” Thomas asked, sounding entirely too even-tempered for Corvo’s tastes. If he was at all uncomfortable, it wasn’t obvious beyond the faint blush on his cheeks and neck which could probably be attributed to the heat more than anything.

Corvo’s temper, frayed as it was by the Outsider’s cryptic words and worsened by the oppressive weather, snapped.

“Don’t you have something you should be doing?” he retorted.

“Does my presence bother you?” came the unperturbed reply, Thomas matching Corvo’s bluntness with his own.

“I thought you had urgent business in the city,” Corvo said. “Since you decided to come along at the last minute.”

“I’m taking care of it.” Thomas met his gaze calmly this time, unlike the guilty way he’d acted that morning.

Corvo fought his instinctive scowl and faced forward again. Worst case scenario, he could knock Thomas out and make a break for it. Sylvio was a complication, but Corvo supposed he could take the boy along with him if he couldn’t lose him in the crowd. As long as none of the other Whalers made an appearance, it would be fine.

Then he mentally slapped himself. Tempting fate with optimistic thoughts like that was just what he needed. He half-expected the whole group to tumble out of the nearest alley and engulf the three of them; it’d be in keeping with his luck so far.

The cosmos must have favoured him then (as Corvo doubted the Outsider was feeling anything resembling generosity towards him at that moment) because no one came crawling out of the woodwork.

Sylvio glanced between the two of them, brows creased. “If there’s something you need to do, I can show Master Daud to wherever he’s going,” the boy said.

“It’s just Daud now, Sylvio,” Thomas said.

“Right,” Sylvio said, dubious.

“And I’m exactly where I need to be,” Thomas added. He hadn’t taken his eyes off of Corvo the entire time.

Sylvio nodded, though he didn’t look any more convinced.

“Ah,” Thomas said, his gaze sliding past Corvo to track over the ships in the harbour. It was the moment of inattention that Corvo had been waiting for, but before he could make use of it, Thomas added, “That’s the one,” and inclined his head.

In spite of himself, Corvo followed his gaze to an otherwise unremarkable ship. It wasn’t old, none of the ships power by whale oil could be considered as such, but it wasn’t new either. One of the earlier models, but it looked to Corvo’s untrained eye to be well-maintained. The _Syren_ , apparently.

“That’s the ship we’ll be taking to Dunwall in a week’s time.”

Something in his neck cracked from how quickly Corvo whipped his head around to look at Thomas, who was watching him with the same calm as before.

“There they are,” someone called, and a moment later Corvo found himself and Thomas surrounded by several more Whalers.

Thomas looked, briefly, as annoyed as Corvo felt by the intrusion. It passed, and then he was grinning at the others. “Just showing Daud the ship.”

“Bit bigger than Stride’s,” Kent said, after Thomas pointed it out for them too.

“No shit, the _Undyne_ was a riverboat,” said a Whaler that Corvo vaguely recognized but couldn’t name, causing a few of the others to laugh.

“Sorry, not everyone was a _literal whaler_ before joining up,” Kent retorted, which earned more laughter.

Sylvio had edged closer to Corvo in the press, to the point that he was nearly hidden behind Corvo’s bulk. It wasn’t enough to hide him from the Whalers for long, however.

“And who’s this?” Dimitri asked.

“Sylvio,” Corvo said. “Our new recruit.”

The Whalers exchanged knowing glances that set Corvo’s teeth on edge; like Thomas, they didn’t seem terribly surprised by this turn of events.

Thomas introduced Sylvio to the other Whalers, which would have been the perfect time for Corvo to slip away- but he couldn’t.

He couldn’t ignore what Thomas had just told him. Why were the Whalers returning to Dunwall? Leaving now, only to have the Whalers follow him in a few days’ time without knowing their intentions, was out of the question.

* * *

Of course, actually finding out what their intentions _were_ was another matter entirely.

They ended up going to a tailor shop, where Kent, Dimitri and the others thought to entertain themselves trying to entice Corvo into increasingly ridiculous outfits while Thomas oversaw the acquisition of several new sets of clothing for Sylvio.

The boy protested first that he had no need for new things, then that he couldn’t possibly pay for them, but Thomas ignored him and paid for them with his own coin.

Their next stop was a cafe. Corvo thought it would be better than the tailor’s, if only because the obnoxious suggestions of the Whalers had died down in the face of Corvo’s obvious annoyance.

Horrifyingly, the waiter asked if they - meaning the assortment of Whalers who were taking up nearly half of the establishment’s tables at that point, their numbers swelled as more of them rejoined the group - were all Corvo’s.

“ _No_ ,” Corvo said, his voice coming out rather more horrified than he would’ve liked, but- honestly.

“Aw, he loves us,” one of the farther-flung Whalers whispered loudly, apparently comfortable in their relative anonymity several tables away. They were just lucky Corvo couldn’t recognize their voice (and probably wouldn’t have known their name in any case).

Regrettably, the cafe did not serve anything stronger than espresso.

After that, they all walked back to the meeting place Rulfio had designated earlier that day. There were any number of opportunities for Corvo to escape, which didn’t soothe his mood in the slightest because there had been no opportunities for him to evade Thomas’ - and Rulfio’s, midway through the trip to the tailor’s - suspicion and grill the other Whalers about the trip to Dunwall.

“Wait,” Corvo said, coming to a stop at the edge of the square and looking carefully at the group. “Where’s Sylvio?”

“Ha, told you,” Dimitri said, elbowing Aedan in the side. Aedan scowled and dug out his coin pouch.

Corvo decided to ignore the exchange for the sake of his sanity, and glared pointedly at the nearest Whaler - Kent - until he answered.

“Thomas and Rulfio took him to tell his family about joining up,” Kent said quickly, wilting under the force of Corvo’s glare.

Now that Corvo looked again, those two were missing too. Corvo wondered if he should be worried about it - but all of the Whalers seemed taken with Sylvio, he couldn’t imagine them doing anything to harm him.

Putting aside the fact that they were part of a gang of murderers.

Corvo resisted the urge to track them down, mainly because he had no idea where to even start looking- trying to find that communal shrine without Sylvio’s guidance would have been impossible, and there was no way of knowing if that was even where Sylvio lived.

The unlikely trio appeared out of the growing shadows about ten minutes later, Sylvio looking rather downcast (from what little Corvo knew of him) and carrying a small bag over one shoulder. He wasn’t the only one burdened down: Thomas still had the purchases from the tailor, a pair of Whalers were carrying something large and cloth-wrapped between them, and most of the others had picked up something during their time in the city.

It was a tight fit for the cart, which had been pushing the edge of cozy on the ride in; the mysterious large object sat in the middle, one of its carriers perched awkwardly atop it and swaying as the cart rattled over the bumps and ruts in the road. Everyone else crowded into the seats, purchases tucked away carefully.

Sylvio sat next to Corvo, hugging his little bag to his chest and watching everyone else with wide eyes. He cast glances back at the dwindling city every so often, until even the lights of Cullero faded.

“If you’re having second thoughts,” Corvo said quietly, “you can always leave.”

Sylvio shook his head vigorously. “I’m not leaving unless you make me,” he said.

Corvo bit back a sigh. “All right. Just remember that.”

“Not leaving,” Sylvio repeated, more quietly. By the time they reached the town, he was slumped halfway into Corvo’s lap, dead asleep. Understandable, given that the sun was just slipping below the horizon.

He woke as Corvo passed him down to Rulfio and struggled for a moment, fear flashing across his face before he seemed to recall where he was.

“Sorry,” he muttered when Rulfio let him down.

Rulfio rubbed his side ruefully. “It’s fine.”

The mood was more sombre as they walked back to the manor. It was much cooler, which made the exercise somewhat more tolerable. Or it would have, if Corvo wasn’t tired from being in the sun and still irritated by the events of the day; taking pleasure in the little things was beyond him, at the moment.

A few Whalers produced lamps, which helped to make the walk easier. Corvo supposed using dark vision or whatever Daud’s version of the power was called would have been a waste of energy.

Sylvio lagged behind with Corvo, trotting to keep up with the faster pace of the adults. He didn’t protest when Corvo took his bag from him, and blinked up at Aedan when the Whaler offered to carry him on his back.

“Just this once,” Aedan said, grinning.

“All right,” Sylvio said. “Thanks.” He climbed carefully onto Aedan’s back, yelping in surprise when Aedan stood up quickly.

“What,” Dimitri said, “Where’s my piggyback ride?” He turned to Corvo hopefully, only to hurriedly keep turning at the glare Corvo gave him. “Never mind.”

Sylvio laughed, at least.

“It’s a long walk, right?” Dimitri asked Sylvio a few minutes later. Their little group was lagging a few steps behind the rest - the closest Whalers were the unfortunate pair carrying the unknown item. Their tired faces and irritable mutters suggested they were coming to regret the purchase.

“I guess,” Sylvio said, glancing at Corvo like he didn’t want to upset him. Maybe if Corvo actually was Daud he’d be offended but as it was, Corvo only felt annoyance for the inconveniently remote manor Daud had chosen as the Whalers’ new home.

“Well, we’ll be reaching the edge of the property soon, but don’t let that fool you,” Dimitri said. “Because that’s just the grapevines. There’s a lot of grapes.”

“You grow grapes,” Sylvio said skeptically. Corvo could relate.

“Kind of. They’re growing themselves right now. Free range, or whatever. The point is, the property’s huge! We could have a stable, and horses!” Dimitri said.

“Imagine the savings,” Aedan said drily, with the air of someone repeating something they’ve heard a few too many times for their liking. “We wouldn’t have to rent the cart, and horses have all sorts of uses-”

“Exactly!” Dimitri said triumphantly.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Corvo said. He hadn’t ridden a horse in years, but it’d be better than this, surely.

He nearly walked into Sylvio, because Aedan - and the rest of the Whalers, who knew they’d all been in earshot? - had come to a stop and were staring at him as if he’d grown a second head.

 _Fuck_ , Corvo thought. What had he done _now_?

“You said you hated livestock in general and horses in particular and that we could stable those ‘hoofed Void-beasts’ on your property over your dead body,” Rulfio said, deadpan.

 _Fuck_ , Corvo thought again, with considerably more vehemence. Aloud, he said, “What, am I not allowed to change my mind now?”

“That’s- not exactly what I said,” Rulfio said, but he averted his eyes when Corvo looked at him, which was gratifying.

Thomas was still staring at him, though; Corvo could almost feel his gaze like a tangible weight. Corvo had been too careless around him, thinking that he’d be long gone by now. But the young man was perceptive; it was little wonder Daud had made Thomas his second.

“Well, anyway,” Dimitri said, his voice too loud in the otherwise quiet group. “We can start looking into it next time we go into the city. Leon, didn’t you say your family used to keep horses?”

“Uh, yeah,” Leon (apparently; Corvo made a note of his face and name) said, then slowly began to recount what he could remember of it.

He finished up by the time they finally reached the beginning of the property. In the darkness, the overgrown rows of grapevines looked faintly ominous. The leaves rustling in the faint night breeze made Corvo jumpy, though he knew that there wouldn't be anything waiting to ambush him behind the foliage.

“Ah, home, sweet home,” Dimitri said.

“You weren’t joking about all the grapevines,” Sylvio said a while after that. Corvo snorted before he could stop himself.

“It’s a work in progress,” Dimitri said gravely. “Oh, look- there’s the manor!”

Corvo restrained himself from running towards it, eager as he was for the promise of privacy and the opportunity to properly consider everything that had happened that day. There was still the matter of settling Sylvio, which Rulfio mainly took charge of; Corvo bade Sylvio good night and retreated to Daud’s room as soon as he could.


	4. Chapter 4

Breakfasts with Emily were generally quiet. Daud had come to think of them as the calm before the storm, the last moments of peace before the day began in earnest. Emily had her lessons with Callista while Daud oversaw various security measures and other tasks related to the daily functioning of the Tower; they attended sessions in parliament and other state meetings together. There were always a hundred things awaiting their attention, together or separately, which left them very little time to themselves. Breakfast was a reprieve; it, and the occasional private dinner, were also the only real time that Daud had alone with Emily.

He’d been glad for that initially. It had been a few months since Emily’s return to the throne, but any erratic behaviour on Daud’s part could be passed off as the stress of the job - even now, Emily’s rule was tenuous. The only one who had known Corvo well before Daud had killed the Empress was Emily, and as far as Daud had been able to discern, she remained the only person Corvo was truly close to. She was the one he’d expect to realize the deception, but she seemed oblivious to it so far.

The only thing that seemed to bother her was the upcoming dinner with the Carmines; since he’d told her of it two days before, she had asked him about it several times. Daud’s repeated evasions were not convincing enough, as she continued to ask him. He could only be glad her perceptiveness didn’t extend to his behaviour as Corvo. It probably had more to do with Emily’s complete faith in Corvo than Daud’s own ability as an actor, but he wasn’t about to complain about that.

Sensing his gaze from across the table, Emily looked up and offered him a smile. It still ached in that bruised place in his chest whenever she did that; Daud knew he had no right to her affection and trust - and that she wouldn’t offer it if she knew who was really sitting across from her.

“So, why are you going to dinner with the Carmines?” Emily asked.

Daud took refuge in his annoyance. “Because I have to,” he said. “It’s important to keep abreast of noble intrigue.”

“You never cared about that before,” Emily said, faltering only briefly at the thought of her mother. Sometimes she could talk about it without any outward signs of distress; other times, she had come dangerously close to tears. Daud had never felt regret for his past mistakes and the acuity of his own inadequacy so much as he did in those moments.

“I have to now,” Daud said simply, trying to evoke the tone he used to shut down irritating lines of inquiry from persistent Whalers.

Emily scowled at him, unappeased; she pointedly went back to the drawing at her elbow, taking a particularly savage bite of her apricot tartlet.

Daud applied himself to his own meal - heartier than Emily’s, who could afford the indulgence of pastry for nearly every morning meal. He didn’t mind the pointed silence, since it gave him the opportunity to marshal his thoughts. He still had a few preparations to make before he went to the Carmine manor. He hoped that Emily would be willing to help him with some of it, he just had to think of how to word it.

“Emily,” Daud said, breaking the silence. He’d finished his meal a few minutes before, but Emily was still eating hers. She never wasted food, as he might have expected from a child - especially one as privileged as her - but she did take her time eating it sometimes.

Emily hummed inquiringly, looking up from the drawing that was distracting her from her meal. She had yet to stay annoyed with Daud for long.

“Your food is going to get cold,” Daud said before he could stop himself.

Emily rolled her eyes and took a bite of her half-finished tartlet. “Delicious,” she said, the tone of her voice and the look she gave Daud at odds with her words.

Daud resisted the urge to chuckle. “Do you have a free hour this afternoon?”

That perked her up. “Are you going to teach me how to fight? I’ve been trying to practice my Tyvian chokehold, but it’s hard. I can’t exactly order the servants to let me use it on them.”

“That’s- true,” Daud said, diverted. “But it’s good that you’re practicing anyway. Having a solid grasp of the basics is important.”

Emily grinned proudly and took another bite of her tartlet.

“She may be young for an Empress but she is not yours to protect or nurture,” the Heart whispered, effectively souring his mood. Daud fought to keep his expression neutral.

“I need to brush up on my etiquette before tonight,” Daud said.

“ _Etiquette_ ,” Emily said, scrunching up her face and uttering the word like some people would utter an expletive. “Oh! We can have that instead of my actual etiquette lesson.”

“All right,” Daud said, willing to take it. “But just this once.”

Emily cheered.

* * *

Daud had been aware, vaguely, that different courtesies were extended to different ranks, and that one’s rank relative to another person’s also affected it, but he was learning firsthand how varied those customs really were. Why settle for outright saying that you were better than someone else when you could imply it through social practices?

“Why are you going to have dinner with the Carmines?” Emily asked, perhaps thinking that Daud’s distraction would be sufficient for him to tell her the _real_ reason.

Daud grasped for patience. He could spend hours waiting for a target to enter his sights, but this bowing and scraping wore at him. His back ached already and they hadn’t even been at it too long. It could be attributed to the body Daud currently inhabited - Corvo’s body was a mass of scars, more so than Daud’s own; most of them recent, probably from his time in Coldridge. They were wounds inflicted to cause pain, and they obviously affected Corvo’s body even now, months later.

“I can’t let these skills get rusty,” Daud said, straightening from his bow and pushing those thoughts away. It was already done, and nothing Daud did now could change that.

Emily rolled her eyes, clearly not fooled, but let the matter drop. “I don’t think they can get any rustier than they already are,” she said gravely, but she ruined it by grinning a moment later.

Daud groaned, entirely unfeigned, prompting a laugh from her. “What did I do wrong this time?”

“You’re the Royal Protector, Corvo. That means you represent your royal! Royalty certainly does not bow that low to a mere noble, and neither should you,” Emily said with mock-haughtiness.

Daud bit back another groan. He had allocated an hour for this, but it didn’t seem as if that would be long enough. If he wasn’t learning this entirely from scratch- but he was, and there was no changing that fact. He tried again.

“All right, are you being this bad on purpose?” Emily asked a few minutes later. “I know you don’t like social functions, but honestly. You were never this bad before-” She bit her lip and fell silent.

“Sorry,” Daud said before he could stop himself. “I- am trying.” That was technically true, even if he wasn’t referring to their current predicament; not entirely, anyway. “I haven’t done this in a while.” That was a lie, but it seemed minor enough compared to the rest of his deception.

Emily nodded, her expression hardening as she tucked away her grief. “Me neither. But we’ll have to again soon, so. Try it again, Corvo.”

Daud tried it again, and again, and again, until he finally got it right.

“But why are you really going to the Carmine manor for dinner?” Emily asked after she had finally deemed his bowing sufficient. It felt like the hundredth time she’d asked that question. Intellectually, Daud knew she couldn’t have asked more than ten times in the days since he’d first mentioned it, but it seemed like many more. “You don’t even like Lord Carmine,” she added, which was something she hadn’t brought up before.

Was there a reason to dislike Carmine? Daud hadn’t heard any particularly salacious gossip about the noble - no disturbing habits or fetishes or skeletons in his closet. Perhaps he hid them better than others; or perhaps he was simply an ass. Most nobles were, in Daud’s experience.

“I can’t ignore someone simply because I don’t like them,” Daud said, wiping his brow with the back of one sleeve. Who knew standing in one spot and bowing repeatedly would be so damn tiring? “I can’t afford to treat certain people differently. They’ll notice and hold grudges, even if they don’t react in the moment.”

“So you don’t like him!” Emily said triumphantly. “I knew it. But I thought you were supposed to treat people equally because that’s how it should be.”

“That too,” Daud said quickly.

“The other thing makes more sense.”

“Maybe don’t tell people about that reason,” Daud said, wincing internally.

Emily nodded gravely. “So will you have lunch with Lady Pendleton next?”

“I hope not,” Daud admitted. The only formal dinner that he could imagine being more excruciating would be with the remaining Ladies Boyle, and at least with them Daud would know they held a grudge and some degree of vengeful intent for the disappearance of their sister.

Emily grinned and patted his arm in what was probably meant to be a consoling fashion. Inured by days of this treatment, Daud didn’t even have to suppress a flinch at the otherwise unexpected touch.

“I’ll save you some dessert and you can tell me aaallll about it when you get back tonight,” she assured him.

Daud couldn’t say why, but the prospect of Emily grilling him about the dinner was almost as daunting as the dinner itself promised to be. “I can’t wait,” he lied.

“She trusts the face you wear,” the Heart said warningly. “Do not even think to betray that trust.”

At least Daud wasn’t heading into the breach alone. But whether the Heart wouldn’t just offer him cryptic commentary worthy of the Outsider was another question entirely.

* * *

The Carmine estate was not nearly as ostentatious as the Boyle manor, nor as large as the Pendletons’ home in the city, but it had a stately grandeur that its counterparts lacked. Unfortunately, security was even tighter than it had been at the last real party the Boyles had thrown.

The streets surrounding the estate were wide, enough so that Daud couldn’t be sure Corvo’s transversals would span them; the walls were made of sheer stone, the only possible handholds the decorations carved into the very top. The only point of weakness that Daud had been able to discern so far was a back door into a low alley; it was the only entrance apart from the massive front gates. The gates were wrought iron bars, with spikes set in the top; scalable, but probably not without being spotted. Spotlights had been mounted on either side, powered up as soon as darkness began to fall; with all the guards the Carmines had patrolling their grounds, someone would likely notice an intruder trying to gain entrance from that quarter.

It wasn’t an auspicious beginning. The estate was the furthest thing from welcoming, and that was just from the exterior. Daud dreaded to think what sort of security measures he’d find inside. He hadn’t had the chance to do much reconnaissance on the Carmines before now, relying on his memories of a theft he’d plotted a few years into the rein of the previous Empress. Memories, he now realized, that had become dangerously outdated.

“This house is nearly as old as Dunwall itself. It has weathered greater upheaval than this,” the Heart said softly as Daud made his way to the front entrance.

“Any advice about what I’ll find within?” Daud muttered.

“The walls of Carmine Manor have seen their share of secrets,” the Heart said.

The Heart was spared Daud’s scathing comment as one of the massive doors swung open to admit him. A haughty servant greeted him and conveyed him deeper into the house.

“He would guard his masters’ secrets with his life,” the Heart said as Daud followed him down the hall.

There were the usual portraits of ancestors hanging on the walls, interspersed with a variety of Tyvian landscapes and other decoration from the northernmost Isle. It was an interesting choice for a family as staunchly Gristolian as the Carmines.

They passed several guards on the way, two of whom were paired with hounds. Were the Carmines known for breeding the beasts? Daud couldn’t recall. At least they didn’t have enough pull with the Abbey to secure a patrol of Overseers or one of those damn music boxes.

The glimpses that Daud caught of the rooms they passed weren’t particularly helpful; none of them seemed to be an office or study, unfortunately. Not for the first time, he found himself missing the presence of the Whalers. They could have scouted the manor out and determined where incriminating documents and other intelligence was kept without Daud having to subject himself to this dinner.

Lord Silas and Lady Ana Carmine awaited him in a sumptuously appointed sitting room.

“Lord Protector,” Silas said, rising with Ana when the servant announced him. Silas inclined his head as Daud offered the bow he’d practiced with Emily. It was probably calculated to the exact degree of propriety, no less and certainly no more; but Daud’s was the same, so he could hardly begrudge the man that.

“Lady Ana Carmine. She is a distant relation of the Olaskirs,” the Heart said, naming the previous dynasty that had ruled the empire as Daud raised Ana’s hand to his mouth. “She plans to sit on the throne before the month is out.”

There was an urgency to its voice that Daud had not heard before, edging towards the same tone of fear Daud remembered from that day at the pavilion. He quashed those memories viciously. He couldn’t afford distractions now, but had he the luxury of privacy, Daud would have taken the Heart from his pocket and glared at it. Did the thing think he’d arranged this dinner for fun? Perhaps its perception was not as omniscient as he’d thought.

“I hadn’t heard you were accepting social engagements,” Silas said as they made their way to the dining room.

Daud offered him the same smile he gave to particularly troublesome clients; he couldn’t say how well it translated on Corvo’s face, but given that Silas quickly looked away, it was effective enough.

“I don’t want to make a production out of it,” Daud said. “Lady Emily still remembers how she was betrayed, as do I. I don’t want to put my trust in the wrong individuals. I hope you can understand.”

Silas and Ana exchanged a look, swift enough that, had Daud not been watching for it, he might have missed it entirely.

“Naturally,” Silas said. “What happened was simply dreadful.”

“Lord Silas Carmine. He has no great ambition, but wishes to see the vision of his wife fulfilled,” the Heart said as they reached the dining room. The settings were already placed for the first course, and a few moments after they were seated, servants began to bring out the meal.

Dinner passed with what Daud assumed was the usual small talk of the nobility. He was familiar with the broad strokes of what had happened in the city since Emily had taken the throne, so he was able to keep up in that regard. The Whalers he had stationed here had even sent reports of the juicier gossip amongst the upper echelon of Dunwall society, though nothing of that sort came up during the meal. The topics were mostly reserved to polite discussion of the efforts to distribute the plague cure and reclaim the districts that had been abandoned, or compliments about the food.

Silas did most of the talking, though he glanced to his wife from time to time - for reassurance or approval, Daud surmised.

“I have to ask- in Parliament, you’ve been quite vocal in your opposition to the tax increases proposed by the Empress- so what alternative do you have in mind?” Daud said midway through the main course. The stuffed pig was too overdone for Daud’s taste, and he was getting bored of the tedious small talk anyway.

Silas stiffened, annoyance crossing his face before it was tucked away. “Why should the nobility pay for the rehabilitation of plague victims and the restoration of the city? We had no hand in the spread of the plague,” Silas said. “Those wretches who brought the plague out of the poor districts should be compensating _us_. Burrows and the Pendletons, perhaps the Boyles- They’re responsible. But as for the rest? We had no inkling of Burrows’ plan. And I can’t say I disagree with his intentions, even if the execution left something to be desired.”

“Silas,” Ana said sharply, but it was far too late.

Daud set his cutlery down carefully, his gaze never leaving Silas’. He watched impassively as the blood drained from the noble’s face as the silence stretched out. “You’re saying you condone treason. You condone that traitor’s plot to murder Empress Jessamine.”

“Of course not,” Ana said immediately.

“I wasn’t speaking to you.”

“Of- Of course I don’t.” Silas licked his lips, his eyes darting between Ana and Daud. “I would never have wished the late Empress ill. But if she’d only dealt with those leeches on society with something resembling rationality-”

“So it’s her fault that she was murdered,” Daud said, his voice rising steadily as he cut Silas off. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been this furious.

“I didn’t say that-”

“Oh, so what did you mean, Lord Carmine?”

“It- You were there, that day,” Silas snapped, rallying. “You were the one who was supposed to protect her. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. That assassin, _Daud_ , murdered her and you took the fall.” Daud flinched to hear his own name thrown in his face like a weapon, but he had little time to dwell on it as Silas continued, “He disappeared too, like all the rest - Campbell and the Pendleton twins and Waverly Boyle. Didn’t have the stomach to kill him, did you? Fucking Serk-”

“That’s enough,” Daud snarled. His throat ached at the rough tone, but Daud ignored the pain. “He- I could have killed him, and he would have _deserved_ it. He spilled enough blood to float a whaling ship, no thanks to _nobles_ like you. But he- but I- I wasn’t going to dirty my blade with a life as worthless as his.”

He’d stood up at some point, his hands planted on the table as he leaned forward, hurling his words at the Carmines. Abruptly, the anger drained out of him, and Daud was left aware of the profound silence that had fallen.

Silas and Ana stared back at him, Silas wide-eyed, Ana more inscrutable.

Ana cleared her throat. “Is the stuffed pig not to your taste, Lord Protector?” she asked. “I found it rather overdone myself.”

“It’s a bit dry,” Daud said hoarsely, all but collapsing back into his chair. He felt- hollowed out. Everything he’d just said rang too true for his liking; it was little comfort that the Carmines probably wouldn’t understand the entirety of what he’d admitted.

Silas grunted, casting a quick glance at Ana. “Y-yes. It’s overdone. I’ll have a word with the cook later,” he said. A weak smile fixed itself upon his face. “Dessert?”

* * *

“Fancy a nightcap before you go?” Silas asked, after the excellent Serkonan dessert that had followed the awkward main course. Daud’s compliments on that course had actually been genuine, if subdued.

“They mix their brandy with poison,” the Heart said, which was probably the most helpful thing it had ever uttered in Daud’s presence.

Daud sighed with feigned regret. “Empress Emily awaits my return,” he said.

Silas smiled, though it resembled a grimace more than anything. “We wouldn’t want Her Majesty staying up past her bedtime.” Daud might have let that slide, were it not for Silas’ patronizing tone and the precedent of their earlier conversation.

“The Empress works hard every day for the sake of this city,” Daud said, more sharply than he intended.

“Of course,” Ana quickly demurred with a smile that was many times sincerer than her husband’s had been. “Silas only meant that it would be a shame to tire Lady Emily needlessly.”

Daud inclined his head slightly to her, though he was not mollified in the least. His earlier rage was burned out, however; he couldn’t muster anything else. “I appreciate your understanding,” he said.

Ana rang for a servant to show Daud to the door. It was the same man who had met Daud when he first arrived - Digby, apparently.

“Dinner was wonderful,” Daud said. “Thank you again for the invitation.”

“It was our pleasure, Lord Protector,” Ana said.

“Just so,” Silas agreed. He seemed about to say something else, but Ana cut him off: “Next time you _must_ bring Her Majesty. I would love to speak with Empress Emily.”

“Of course,” Daud said. “I’ll see about arranging it.” He turned to Digby expectantly, eager to escape the Carmines’ company.

“This way, milord,” Digby said, leading back along much the same path as the one that had led Daud to the dining room. It was frustrating, though not wholly unexpected; it left Daud no chance to scout the other rooms. He assumed Silas’ office was on the storey above, or behind one of the closed doors on the main floor.

They passed several patrolling guards, including the two paired with hounds. At any other time, Daud might have found it within himself to appreciate the Carmines’ diligence; not it was just an annoyance, and seemed to point more than ever to their culpability. People without something to hide generally weren’t this paranoid.

The back of Daud’s neck prickled as he exited the manor, a sensation experience had taught him to associate with being watched. But when he turned sharply and scanned the exterior of the manor, no one was there. A few windows were lit from within, but no shapes could be seen framed by the panes.

“Did you forget something, Lord Protector?” Digby asked, though his thinly-veiled hostility was at odds with his words.

“I thought I heard something,” Daud lied.

“Some mystery fuels their steps,” the Heart whispered, cementing Daud’s suspicious that someone had been watching him.

“Good night, milord,” the servant said pointedly.

“And to you,” Daud returned, dry.

The railcar awaited him on the street, in front of the gate to the Carmine Manor- just as he’d left it. The driver conveyed him several blocks over, to the fringe of the Estate District. Daud took advantage of the brief trip to shed his formal clothes and don the nondescript outfit he’d stashed in the car for that very purpose.

The driver was one that the Heart had assured Daud was loyal to Emily and her Royal Protector; while he knew that loyalty could be bought, he didn’t have many other options. He’d left the man with instructions to take the empty railcar to the carriage house and act like nothing out of the ordinary had happened should anyone question him about Daud’s whereabouts.

Sneaking back into the Manor wasn’t an easy task, but he managed to get over the wall and past the guards patrolling the lawn and gardens without incident. In spite of Corvo’s inferior transversals, Daud was able to enter the house itself through an unlocked balcony on the second floor.

A guard and his hound almost spotted him though; as Daud scanned the bedroom he’d quickly ducked into, he couldn’t help but lament the quality of his own powers that allowed him to stop time for as long as it took to decide upon the destination of a transversal.

A pair of guards roamed the second floor, and a maid was stoking the fire in the room next door. There could very well have been more people to see him beyond the limit of his void gaze; Daud rubbed at his temples, willing back the headache he could feel beginning to press there, and set off.

“Secrets collected between these walls, pressing at the door and streaking along the window. Seeking an escape,” the Heart whispered as Daud passed a closed door further down the hall. It was locked, of course. Daud bit back a curse, and then another when he saw a guard nearing the end of the corridor. He ducked into the next room - another bedroom, this one much more impressive than the last.

A large bed dominated the room, four posters supporting a solid canopy draped with pale fabric; Daud had little time to scan the rest of the room, his attention drawn by the open door leading to the room the Heart had been drawn to.

It was an office, sumptuously appointed to the point of ostentation. Daud gave it a cursory once-over, unconcerned with the extravagant decor. At one time he might have viewed it with an awed sort of disgust, but that was years ago. The painting hanging above the mantle, of the Lord Carmine who had helped to found Dunwall, was a good candidate for hiding a safe. But given the age of the house and the wealth of its owners, a hidden room tucked away behind a statue or bookcase was just as likely to hold the family’s valuables. In place of windows, a pair of large glass doors led to a balcony overlooking the estate.

The surface of the desk was clean and uncluttered, pen and inkwell set neatly to one side, along with various other writing implements. An audiograph took up the other side, a fresh card in the slot, ready to record. The drawers were locked, but a quick scan with his void gaze revealed nothing of worth within. The safe hidden behind the portrait was similarly useless; a single gold bar was the extent of the valuables.

It saved him the trouble of finding a key or combination for the safe, at least.

“That damn Serk.” Silas’ voice drifted through the open door.

Daud blinked to the top of the nearest bookcase, the first viable hiding spot that he spotted. It was beside the doorway leading to the master bedroom, forcing Daud to observe the Carmines through the wall.

“The timing is inconvenient.” Ana’s tone was more measured, as she had been during dinner.

“Do you think he suspects?” Silas paced before the fireplace while Ana removed her necklace and earrings.

“He must,” Ana said, setting the jewellery into an ornate box on her vanity.

“He said he wanted to trust—”

“The time is too convenient,” Ana said flatly, cutting him off. “We must assume he suspects, at the very least.”

Daud glanced over at the audiograph sitting on the desk. Corvo didn’t have any equivalent to tethering that Daud had been able to uncover, but he could bend time—

The Carmines’ conversation slowed to a standstill. Daud leapt down to the floor, the thick rug absorbing some of the impact; his joints still throbbed in protest. Was his real body this achy?

The audiograph was heavy but Daud managed to heft it into his arms and transverse back up to the bookcase before time resumed its course. He nearly overbalanced, but set the machine down gently without incident. The click of the recording mechanism engaging was loud in his ears, but Silas’ words drowned it out.

“—why now?” Silas was saying, plaintive, as he went to Ana’s side. “We’ve been circumspect—”

“Perhaps a new Spymaster has been appointed,” Ana murmured, gathering her hair to one side so Silas could help her out of her dress. “Operating in secret, under the exclusive purview of the Empress and her loyal dog.”

“Or perhaps Stradford has betrayed us! I knew we shouldn’t have trusted him—”

“Had Stradford betrayed us, the Royal Protector would have come with the documents we entrusted to him, and a squad of guards.”

Daud frowned as their conversation turned to other matters - irritating speculation on Emily’s parentage, and the unsuitability of a Serkonan for such a high station as Royal Protector, among other things. Everything that he had recorded was useless, little more than oblique references to a conspiracy of unknown intentions. Daud _knew_ that they planned to overthrow Emily, but he had no proof.

Lord Stradford had incriminating evidence, apparently, but getting it was another question entirely. Stradford’s home was in the Legal District, across the Wrenhaven, and Daud had to get back to the Tower to report to Emily in any case.

Killing people was so much simpler. Daud longed, for a moment, to draw Corvo’s strange folding blade and kill the scheming nobles in the next room. It would eliminate the immediate threat, and send an effective message to their conspirators and any other would-be emperors and empresses all at once.

But that wasn’t how Daud dealt with problems any longer, and more than that it wasn’t how _Corvo_ would deal with them either. Daud cared little for his own reputation now, but he was willing to go to great lengths to preserve Corvo’s.

The audiograph came to a stop, the click of the ejecting card rousing Daud from his reverie. He tucked the recording into an inner pocket, his attention refocusing on the conversation in the next room.

“—did you hear that?” Ana asked.

Daud bit back a curse and stopped time again. The headache he’d felt coming on earlier had taken up residence between his temples, a sure sign that he’d used too much magic in too short an interval.

In the suspended seconds of frozen time, Daud returned the audiograph to its place on the desk and ducked through the unsecured glass doors onto the balcony beyond. A tree grew midway between the wall enclosing the estate and the balcony, just within reach of a transversal. Daud paused for breath within its branches, praying that the rustling he’d made scrambling for purchase could be passed off as a breeze.

A hysterical laugh rose in his throat as he realized that Billie - and a good number of the rank and file Whalers, now that discipline had relaxed considerably - would have laughed to see him stumbling around like a novice on his first assignment. He bit the sound off before it could emerge, watching carefully as Silas peered out the doors before twitching the curtains shut. The guards patrolling the grounds below gave his hiding spot no special notice, so it seemed he’d been unobserved.

“They suspect you. Lord Silas and Lady Ana,” the Heart murmured, but it lacked the accusatory tone Daud had become accustomed to. In the hidden pocket of his coat, it beat nearly as quickly as Daud’s own heart.

“The feeling’s more than mutual,” Daud muttered, and cautiously picked his way through the branches towards the wall.

* * *

When he returned to Corvo's office at Dunwall Tower, he found that the recording was useless, as he'd feared. Ana’s quiet replies were nearly inaudible, and even if they hadn't been, there was nothing particularly incriminating about what the Carmines had said.

“Fuck,” Daud muttered, digging the heel of one hand against his forehead. His head continued to pound, and his throat was killing him no matter how much water he downed. He was unused to incompetence, particularly his own, and it rankled; but he knew where to go to get proof of the Carmines’ treachery, at least.

Corvo and the City Watch had raided a few noble residences associated with Burrows’ short-lived regime after Emily took the throne, so Daud could have Curnow arrange a raid on the Stradford home tomorrow—

A brisk knock on the door of Corvo’s office echoed through the room.

“Come in,” Daud grunted after a moment, though he was in no mood to entertain whoever wanted to see him at this void-forsaken hour.

It was Emily, of course. She shut the door behind herself, pausing a moment to turn the lock, before coming forward.

“I didn’t see you come in, Corvo,” she said, faintly scolding. A rich robe in Kaldwin blue covered her nightgown, a concession to the hour. She didn’t look any more tired than usual, but that was probably because she always looked tired and made a determined effort to appear otherwise by acting cheerful around Daud.

“I took the rooftops,” Daud admitted.

“I thought so.” Emily smiled up at him, satisfied to find herself correct. Then asked, more somberly, “It didn’t go well?”

“You know these fancy dinners aren’t my favourite.”

Emily nodded. “You didn’t throw someone out this time, did you?”

“It must be against some kind of etiquette to throw the host out of his own home,” Daud said, deadpan.

Emily giggled. “But nothing bad happened?”

 _Not yet_ , Daud didn’t say. Not _ever_ , if he had his way. “No,” he said aloud, too seriously. He tried to moderate his tone into something less grave. “Just a disagreement about politics.”

“Lord Carmine does argue a lot in parliament,” Emily mused, casually sidling over to his side of the desk.

“Emily,” was all he said in warning when she made to peek at the topmost sheet of one of the stacks of documents.

“I can’t look through your things when they’re all organized like this,” she said. “Why did you start—?”

“Oh, so it was you who kept putting things out of order,” Daud bluffed.

She grinned up at him again. “Oops.” She didn’t sound the slightest bit guilty.

“Isn’t it time for bed?” Daud made a show of checking the clock, which read the wrong side of midnight.

“I don’t know, is it? You don’t look ready for bed.” Emily raised an eyebrow at him, crossing her arms over her chest as she lifted her chin imperiously.

“I can’t go to bed before my—” _daughter?_ “—charge.”

“All right,” Emily said, dragging the last word out. “Oh! But first, I have something to give you.” She tugged a roll of paper out of one pocket and unfurled it for him to see.

Daud had seen a fair share of Emily’s drawings. She doodled in the margins of her notes and spent a good portion of her free time practicing. He’d noticed that she preferred crayons, though pens with different colours of ink, coloured pencils and, rarely, paint were acceptable substitutes.

He stared down at her latest offering. It was- It was a good likeness. Recognizable. The skill that Emily was just coming into was obvious in the picture.

“This is-” _me_. Daud coughed once, but stopped trying to reveal his identity immediately; the tightness in his throat eased somewhat.

“Yeah,” Emily said. “It’s Daud.”

Hearing his name for the second time that day was utterly unexpected. It wasn’t said with hate or anger either. Emily sounded- subdued. He forced himself to keep talking, so she wouldn’t think his reaction was too odd: “Why?”

“What you said about him made me think,” Emily said, looking down at the drawing. Daud bit the inside of his cheek to keep from demanding that she repeat everything Corvo had told her about him. “He’s just a man, a man who made a mistake. Well, a lot of mistakes- how many people did Captain Curnow say the Watch thought he’d killed? Anyway. If you can let him live after what he did, maybe you can stop blaming yourself for it too.”

Daud stared at her for several long moments, at a complete loss. What she’d just said was- absurd. Utterly absurd. How could Corvo blame himself for Jessamine’s death? The outcome was decided when Daud accepted the job from Burrows; Corvo’s presence was immaterial. There was nothing he could have said or done that day that would have preserved Jessamine’s life.

“It’s weird to think that it’s only been a year,” Emily said, her grip tightening around the drawing. The edges crumpled in her grasp. “It feels like so much longer. The day always seemed endless at the Cat. And we only spent a week with Adm- with Havelock and Martin and Pendleton, but at the same time it seemed as if we’d never leave the pub.”

Daud forced his thoughts into motion, trying to parse what she’d said. He’d known the Pendleton twins had kept Emily at the Golden Cat, and had suspected her return to the throne had been orchestrated in some part by the three men she’d mentioned, but he knew nothing specific.

“I imagine they had good intentions in the beginning,” Daud said. Most people usually did.

“Maybe,” Emily said, smoothing out the crinkled paper carefully. “Does that make up for what they ended up doing?”

“Does m- Daud’s regret make up for what he did?”

The words fell from his mouth without conscious thought. Daud wanted to take them back immediately, wished frantically that the mark could turn back time for a few scant seconds so he could stop the damning question before it came out. He didn’t want to know the answer; didn’t know what he wanted the answer to _be_.

“I don’t know,” Emily said, looking up at him. Her eyes were guileless, her sincerity sharp enough to cut him open.

Daud looked away, unable to discern if what he felt was relief or disappointment. “I don’t know either.”

Emily sighed. “OK, I guess I should probably go to bed,” she said. “You go to bed soon too, Corvo.” There was a rustle, then soft footsteps; the door clicked shut.

Emily had left the drawing on top of the desk, laid diagonally across two stacks of documents. Daud itched to reach out and right it, but he didn’t have a stack for Emily’s drawings, and putting it up on the wall alongside her other art seemed wrong. Touching it seemed wrong.

He ended up staring at the sheet. Emily had smoothed the edges out well, but the faint impressions and folds from her grip were still obvious. No matter what either of them did, the flaws would always be there, visible if someone stared for long enough.


	5. Chapter 5

As the day of their departure for Dunwall dragged ever closer, Corvo found himself becoming more and more restless. Life as the Royal Protector had taught him patience, but that didn’t mean he liked waiting - especially when his charge was likely in danger. It was times like these that he would throw himself into action to neutralize any threat, but he didn’t even know what form that threat had taken yet.

So, a few days after the trip to Cullero, Corvo found himself in the kitchen before dawn.

One of his earliest memories was of sitting in the tiny kitchen of his childhood home, watching his mother knead dough. She baked all sorts of things - thick brown bread, delicious pies and soft, crumbly cookies. Rarely, when she could secure the use of a richer neighbour’s larger oven, she would make fluffy cakes that Corvo had always imagined tasted like clouds.

After his father’s death, in those years before Corvo won his commission at the Blade Verbena, his mother’s unofficial business kept them afloat. Corvo and his sister had lent their hands when they could; he’d been more enthusiastic about it than Beatrici, though she’d had more of an aptitude for it.

Corvo had baked only occasionally since becoming Royal Protector, usually for Jessamine or, later, Emily. That he had a sweet tooth and enjoyed eating the pastries he created too was simply a happy coincidence. (Jessamine had always given him this _look_ when he said that; Emily hadn’t inherited her sweet tooth from her mother.)

As he stood in the kitchen at the vineyard, ingredients and mixing bowls and pans and implements laid out on the counter before him, Corvo realized that he hadn’t baked anything since the early days of the plague, years before. He’d have to change that if- _when_ \- he returned to his real body. Emily loved his apricot tarts almost as much as Corvo himself.

Corvo cracked his knuckles, pleasantly surprised that no pain or resistance plagued him. If Daud’s fingers had ever been broken, it wasn’t with the same systematic desire to cause lasting pain - if not outright ruin them - that had left Corvo’s hands gnarled and stiff.

He sighed, the sound loud in the otherwise silent kitchen, and deliberately put those thoughts aside. He had work to do.

It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of mixing the base ingredients into dough and pitting the cherries he’d found in the icebox. The oven was old, though much fancier than the one he remembered from his childhood; stoking it took a bit of effort, but he managed it, feeding logs from the stack near the back door into the fire.

As the sun started to creep over the horizon, Corvo heard someone wander into the kitchen.

Dimitri stood just inside the doorway, a hand raised to his mouth, mid-yawn. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click when he realized Corvo was watching him.

“Smells good, Master Daud,” he said with a grin, summoning one of the cooling tart to his hand with a bit of tethering.

“You only get one,” Corvo said, in what would have been the chiding tone he took (rarely) with Emily.

“Mm! Really good,” Dimitri said, blithely ignoring Corvo’s warning and accompanying glare as he walked over to the counter and the rack of tarts. All that remained of the first one was a bit of cherry juice at the corner of his mouth.

“And why do you sound so surprised?” Corvo growled, though he would’ve been startled himself if it turned out Daud could bake.

Dimitri smiled winningly up at him. “I never knew you had so many talents, Master Daud,” he said, all wide-eyed innocence.

Corvo snorted, grabbing Dimitri’s outstretched wrist before he could palm another tart. “Nice try.”

“Aedan’ll let me have his,” Dimitri said, snatching up another with his free hand.

Corvo glared at him, but Dimitri just stuffed the tart in his mouth and gave him that shiteating grin again. It shouldn’t have been, but his puffed-out cheeks somehow made it more charming.

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“Yes sir,” Dimitri said. “I’ll be late if I don’t leave soon anyway,” he added over his shoulder as he all but scampered out.

Corvo rolled his eyes and bent to pull the next pan out of the oven.

* * *

Aedan and Petro were the next to find their way into the kitchen, both obviously surprised to find Corvo already there, washing everything that he’d used earlier.

“You can have one each,” Corvo told them.

“Thanks!” Petro stuffed his tart whole into his mouth before walking over to dry Corvo’s dishes. Aedan ate his more slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face as he leaned against the counter and watched them.

A trickle of Whalers followed the pair into the kitchen after that, turning into a steady stream, as news of Corvo’s tarts spread through the manor.

“They’re gone?” Rinaldo said, crestfallen, an hour later. “I got up early and you assholes already ate them all?”

“The early bird gets the worm,” Hobson said, condescending.

“ _You got here two seconds before me and took the last one_ ,” Rinaldo snapped.

Hobson shrugged, polishing off the rest of his tart in one bite.

“You can blame Dimitri,” Corvo said. “He got two.”

“Two?!” several Whalers cried with varying degrees of censure, probably depending on how many of the tarts they’d managed to consume. Corvo had seen several of them come back for seconds and thirds, though he hadn’t bothered reprimanding them.

“Hey, where is Mitya anyway?” Corvo heard Petro ask Aedan. “I didn’t see him come in.”

“He went into town for something.” Aedan didn’t sound particularly concerned, so Corvo focused back on the drama unfolding with Rinaldo.

“You can have some of mine,” Sylvio offered, holding out his partially-nibbled tart to Rinaldo.

“Resorting to taking food from a hungry child,” Hobson muttered when Rinaldo reached out.

“Shut up!” Rinaldo rounded on the other Whaler, which was when Thomas and Rulfio walked in.

“What’s going on,” Rulfio asked mildly, taking in the crowded kitchen, and the obviously escalating exchange between Rinaldo and Hobson.

“Daud made us tarts!” Sylvio said brightly, brandishing his proudly. Crumbs scattered across the floor.

“That’s _it_ ,” Thomas said, glaring at Corvo.

* * *

The fight, if it could be called that, was over embarrassingly quickly. Corvo only had a few knives; Rulfio and Thomas had come prepared. Both parties seemed reluctant to inflict serious damage on the other, but Corvo found himself trussed up in a chair in the cellar soon enough.

He tugged experimentally at his restraints, grimacing when he found them secure. The situation was similar enough to the torture chamber in Coldridge that it put Corvo on edge, though the chair wasn’t the sturdy metal construction designed to hold a prisoner indefinitely. If he got some time alone, he probably could have pulled the wooden chair apart, though there were so many Whalers that being left unattended seemed an impossibility.

They hadn’t broken out the torture tools yet, so that was something, and not all of the Whalers seemed convinced by Thomas and Rulfio’s suspicions.

“What in the Void do you think you’re doing?” Corvo demanded again as Thomas and Rulfio muttered to each other on the far side of the room.

“He doesn’t act like a witch, Thomas,” Petro said. “I mean, Daud has been a bit off since— well, everything. If he was possessed by Delilah or one of her witches, wouldn’t he have tried something by now?”

“You think I’m one of Delilah’s witches?” Not for the first time, Corvo wondered who she was. She’d obviously made an impression on Daud and his Whalers.

Thomas stalked forward, glaring down at Corvo. It was easy to see why Daud had chosen the young man as his second in that moment. “You’re obviously _not_ Daud,” he said.

“I’m-” His throat tightened around his name, and Corvo gave it up. “I’m not one of Delilah’s witches.”

“If you are Daud,” Petro said, “tell me what his name is.” He pointed at one of the Whalers standing close to the wall.

“I can’t even see him.”

“Oh, sorry,” the Whaler said, in an unfamiliar voice, but Corvo relaxed when he moved into sight.

“That’s Jenkins,” Corvo said.

“What’s my name?” called another Whaler, elbowing Jenkins out of the way.

“Quinn.”

“Me?” A third stepped up in front of him.

“Javier.”

Rulfio groaned loudly, passing his hand briefly over his face. “Ask him something only Daud would know! Anyone could have learned our names by now.”

Corvo resented that. It had been a real effort to commit the names and faces of most, if not all, of the Whalers to memory in about a week.

“What do you mean ‘by now’,” Kent said. “How long have you thought Daud was an impostor?”

Rulfio and Thomas exchanged looks.

“I dosed the kid with sleep toxin,” Hobson announced, descending into the cellar with a large black physician’s bag. Tools jangled ominously within. “He’ll be out for a while.”

“So you think Sylvio’s in on it?!” Avery asked, several other Whalers murmuring in agreement.

“Yeah, would an impostor have recruited a kid within like an hour of entering the city?” Kent added, earning more support from the gathered Whalers.

“I have nothing to do with Delilah,” Corvo tried again, forcing himself to looking away from Hobson’s medical bag. His eyes kept darting to it every few seconds though. They wouldn’t risk harming Daud, would they? It was still Daud’s body—

“We’ve been suspicious of his actions for about a week now,” Thomas said firmly.

“A week? Then why’d you wait so long before telling us?” Petro demanded.

“Outsider’s eyes,” Hobson muttered, rolling his own dramatically as he shoulder through the press to Corvo. He circled around the chair and knelt behind him, rummaging in his bag.

“What are you doing?” Corvo asked before he could stop himself, trying to crane his neck to see.

“He’s used the mark before, though, hasn’t he?” Strong, callused fingers closed around his wrist, turning his hand palm down to expose the mark.

“He didn’t use it when we captured him earlier,” Jenkins said.

Hobson leaned around, meeting Corvo’s eyes. “Can you use it?”

“Of course I can,” Corvo snapped. “This is— my body.”

“Prove it.”

“How do I know you won’t cut it off as soon as the mark flares,” Corvo said.

“That’s fair,” a Whaler said; Corvo was focused too hard on trying to remain calm to discern their identity just from their voice.

“You can use it once, and then we’ll cut it off if you try again,” Hobson said. “Pick up that bottle.” He jerked his chin, indicating an empty wine bottle lying in the corner.

Corvo gritted his teeth but summoned the bottle to his hand all the same, his fingers curling around the cool glass automatically as it smacked into his palm.

Hobson hummed thoughtfully, prying the bottle from his grasp and tossing it aside carelessly.

“So… does this mean he’s Daud?” someone asked.

“A witch would know how to use these powers,” Thomas insisted.

“Wouldn’t a witch have severed our arcane bond by now, though?” Aedan asked, speaking up for the first time.

“So you think this is Daud?” Rulfio asked.

“Well, no,” Aedan said. He raised his voice to be heard over the outraged murmurs this admission incited to continue, “But I don’t think whoever’s in there is related to Delilah either.”

“Really,” Thomas said. “That’s so helpful.”

Aedan shrugged. “They don’t act like Daud, but they don’t seem malicious either.”

“What do you mean he doesn’t act like Daud?” Kent asked.

“They ate a sandwich with horseradish in it the day we went to Karnaca, without complaining about it, _and_ they shared some with Mitya before they knew there was horseradish in it,” Aedan said. “And that whole thing with the actual horses on the way back.”

What was Daud’s issue with horses and tangentially-related vegetables? Corvo held back a wince as more of the Whalers started nodding in agreement.

“Tastes change,” he tried.

“He missed the briefing several days ago about our mission to Dunwall too,” Rinaldo put in.

“I rescheduled it and forgot to tell you,” Corvo said. “Actually, let’s go over it now—”

“ _Helloooo_?!” someone called from overhead, their voice echoing down from the main floor. “ _Where is everybody_?”

Several Whalers blinked away, returning with Dimitri a moment later.

“Check this out,” Dimitri said, waving around a heavy envelope that Corvo recognized from the stockpile in his office in Dunwall Tower. “I went into town to pick up the horses, and there was this letter waiting for me. It was sealed with the Royal Protector’s crest, right? But it was addressed to Thomas in Master Daud’s writing.”

Thomas snatched it out of his hands, ripping the flap of the envelope clean off in his haste to open it. “There’s nothing in here,” he said flatly.

“Oh, yeah. I already opened and read it.” Dimitri smiled innocently and pulled the letter out of his pocket, oblivious to Thomas’ annoyed glare as he took the missive.

Rulfio and a few others crowded around Thomas, trying to read over his shoulder or upside down, but Aedan just went to the source: “What’d it say?” he asked Dimitri.

“Apparently… Well, it was in our new cipher so I might’ve read it wrong, but _apparently_ Master Daud’s spirit is in Master Corvo’s body and he suspects that Master Corvo is in his body.”

The listening Whalers turned as one to Corvo, looking at him with varying degrees of expectation or disbelief.

“Kinky,” someone said.

Groans and entreaties for the speaker to shut up met that pronouncement; Corvo fervently agreed.

“So, are you Master Corvo?” Dimitri asked, stepping closer.

“Yes, I’m—” But he still couldn’t say it, aggravatingly enough.

“Ooh, Master Daud said in the letter that he couldn’t say his own name without choking either!”

“Are you going to untie me or not?” Corvo demanded, tugging at his bonds for emphasis.

Dimitri blinked down at him, as if noticing for the first time that Corvo was tied up. “How come—”

“Thomas and Rulfio thought he was a Brigmore witch,” Aedan said.

“Oh,” Dimitri said blankly. “That doesn’t—”

“I know. Pretty stupid.”

“We’re standing right here,” Rulfio said mildly, turning to look at Aedan with a deceptively even expression.

Aedan met his stare calmly. “That’s why I didn’t call you two—”

“Aedan,” Dimitri said, smiling up at him, “come see the horses.”

The pair of them, along with half the Whalers, left, obviously interested in the horses that Dimitri had brought back.

“Nice to know our illustrious leader’s safety ranks just below horses on their list of priorities,” Thomas grumbled as he sliced through Corvo’s bonds with a knife.

“But he _is_ safe. And probably not tied up for interrogation,” Corvo added pointedly.

Thomas frowned at him, taking several steps back as Corvo rose out of the chair, shedding the remains of the ropes as he stood. His wrists were red where they’d been bound to the arms of the chair, but the skin wasn’t broken; the marks would fade in day or so.

“But how did this happened?” Hobson asked, studying Corvo with a critical eye reminiscent of Sokolov. “This— body swap.”

“Body swap,” Rulfio muttered, shaking his head at the term.

“That’s the scientific nomenclature that I’ll be using when I publish a paper on the phenomenon in a few months’ time. Keep an eye out for it,” Hobson said gravely.

“Like anyone would take an Academy washout seriously,” Thomas snapped, turning his head so he could glare at Hobson and keep Corvo in his line of sight at the same time.

That wariness was unwarranted, and more than a little offensive. Corvo’d gone through Daud’s base like a ghost, knocking out those Whalers that he couldn’t avoid entirely; he’d even spared Daud! And if Corvo had actually intended to kill the assembled assassins, it wasn’t like a few seconds’ forewarning would be enough to stop him.

Hobson was unimpressed with Thomas as well, raising an eyebrow in the face of the young man’s annoyance. “Someone’s in a mood. I would’ve thought it’d be the bodyguard stuck in the assassin’s body, but no, it’s the second-choice lieutenant—”

“Enough, both of you,” Rulfio sighed, stepping between them. He ignored the twin glares he received for his trouble and focused on Corvo. “ _Do_ you know why you and Daud… swapped bodies?” He said the last words as if they physically pained him.

“Well, what else do you want me to call it? Corporeal translocation? That sounds sufficiently esoteric—”

“Body swap is fine, Hobson, _thank you_ ,” Rulfio said with deliberate patience.

Hobson smirked. “Happy to be of service to you master assassins.”

Rulfio looked, for a moment, like he regretted the choices that had led to him joining up with a notorious assassin’s gang and then following that assassin into dubious retirement on a shitty vineyard.

“It’s the Outsider’s doing,” Corvo said, ignoring the tangent they’d taken. “I mentioned that I wanted peace and quiet, apparently Daud wanted action and excitement-- Here I am, and there Daud is. In Dunwall. With Emily.”

That thought had occupied his mind quite a lot over the past few days. Did Emily know that something was wrong with the man she thought was Corvo? Was she frightened? Had Daud fucked things up again?

“I knew this retirement was a bad idea,” Hobson said, sounding bored.

“Oh for—” Rulfio muttered.

The remaining Whalers were blinking off or slipping away up the stairs, apparently uninterested in the proceedings now that Corvo had explained what had happened. Or maybe they just didn’t want to watch Hobson goad Thomas any longer. It was starting to lose its appeal.

“It’s hardly a retirement when the majority of us came with him,” Thomas said.

“You were literally the one campaigning most strongly for Daud to let us come along,” Rulfio pointed out. “So you can’t really use that as an argument.”

Thomas bristled. “Well, how could I— we— leave him alone after everything? The Empress, Billie, Delilah—”

“Who is Delilah?” Corvo demanded, latching on to the one topic that interested him. “Another person bearing the Outsider’s mark?”

The trio exchanged looks; after a few seconds of exaggerated facial expressions and half-audible mutters, Thomas groaned.

“Fine, I’ll tell him!”

“You might want to sit down. It’s a weird story,” Hobson told Corvo. There was a high chance that Hobson was just messing around with him, though, so Corvo ignored his advice.

* * *

Corvo did end up sitting down as Thomas explained about Delilah and the events leading up to her defeat. He’d known that there were plenty of things that went on in Dunwall without his knowledge, but the thought that Emily could have been killed regardless of what Corvo had done was— insufferable.

That _Daud_ was the one who’d put a stop to it—

Corvo didn’t know what to think. He wanted to believe that Thomas was lying, but the Outsider had mentioned at the Cullero shrine that Daud had saved Emily once before. And that he was trying to keep her safe now, back in Dunwall.

Thomas glanced over when Corvo straightened up, something like relief crossing his face. Apparently Corvo had been silent for longer than he’d thought after Thomas had finished his story.

“Is there something else happening? The Outsider mentioned another threat,” Corvo said. “Why are you going back to Dunwall?”

“Ah, the Carmines and some other upstarts think they can pull off a coup,” Hobson said dismissively. “We’re going back to deal with it. Or we were. What’d the letter say, are we still going?” He addressed the last part to Thomas.

Thomas nodded. “Daud said that he’d try to handle things in Dunwall on his own, but we should carry on as we were as a precaution. He also thinks that he and Corvo need to be in the same place to find out a way to reverse the switch.”

“Swap,” Hobson corrected, smirking in the face of Thomas’ glare.

“I’m going to go see these horses,” Rulfio said loudly, rolling his eyes, before making for the stairs.

“I’ll come too,” Corvo said, blinking past Thomas and Hobson to land on the bottom step just behind Rulfio.

The Whaler glanced at Corvo sidelong as they all but fled up the stairs. “You’re taking this well.”

“This is hardly the worst thing that’s happened in my life,” Corvo said, dry; he knew his words had hit the mark when Rulfio winced. “It’s certainly in the top five, but it’s not the _worst_.”

“Fair point,” Rulfio muttered, chagrined. “But perhaps it’s for the best.”

“How so.” One thing Corvo could appreciate about Daud’s body was his voice; even at its most neutral tone, almost everything that he said sounded some degree of judgmental. And Corvo could speak as much as he liked, without worrying about overtaxing his throat and vocal cords.

“You didn’t know about the threat the Carmines posed— still pose, for the moment,” Rulfio amended. “I don’t doubt your ability to protect the Empress,” he added quickly. “But with Daud in Dunwall, perhaps the threat can be averted entirely.”

“Daud could have sent a note.”

“Really. You would have taken an anonymous tip like that at face value?” Rulfio shook his head. “Or perhaps Daud should have signed it. _That_ would have assured you of its legitimacy.”

Corvo frowned but was saved from having to concede the point when they walked out the front entrance.

“Daud! Er, I mean— Corvo. Lord Protector?” Kent squirmed under Corvo’s gaze as he stuttered over how to address him.

“My name is fine,” Corvo said. Everyone else used it anyway.

“Right! Well, uh, come see this horse! It looks like you. I mean, it looks like Master Daud. Who you also resemble, currently—”

“Stop while you’re ahead, Kent,” Rulfio cut in. “Where is it.” His uncharacteristically curt tone suggested that he wasn’t as unaffected by how current events were unfolding as he’d like to appear.

“Yes.” Kent coughed, looking abashed. “By the stable.” He trotted away across the front of the manor.

Corvo had been aware, vaguely, that preparations were being enthusiastically made to procure horses, but he hadn’t paid them much attention. So he was understandably shocked when he saw that the stable, a dilapidated excuse for a building, had been restored and properly outfitted with feed and tack and other essentials. The shoddy fence that had enclosed an area to exercise the horses had also been replaced, and it was there that they found the six horses that Dimitri had somehow secured in about half a week.

Kent led them to the largest horse, which was attended only by Dimitri, Aedan and Sylvio, who was clinging to Aedan’s back and looking decidedly drowsy; the other Whalers seemed to be giving it a wide berth and focusing their attentions on the others.

“It doesn’t look like Daud at all,” Corvo said, tilting his head as he tried to see the resemblance. Its coat had the same dark colouration as Daud’s hair, but that was hardly noteworthy.

The horse turned its head to glare at him, revealing a jagged scar that ran down the right side of its head, narrowly missing its eye.

“Oh.” Corvo tried to return its stare, unnerved. It was like trying to win a staring contest with the Outsider. Actually, its eyes reminded him uncannily of the Outsider’s—

“We should name her Daud,” Dimitri suggested, beaming.

“The real Daud would throw a fit,” Rulfio said. “You can’t leave him the slightest excuse to get rid of the horses when he gets back.”

Dimitri sighed gustily. “True.”

“She looks like a Peachblossom to me,” Sylvio said, stifling a yawn.

“You may be on to something,” Dimitri said, peering up at the horse. “She’s feisty. Kicked Petro in the— you know.”

That explained why everyone else was avoiding it— her. Corvo took a prudent step back, eying her hooves suspiciously; Rulfio and Kent did the same.

“But a peach blossom isn’t feisty,” Kent objected. “Maybe we can name her Assassin or something.”

“Isn’t Vintner more accurate, now.” It was hard to tell whether Aedan was joking or not from his dry tone.

“Name her the Neighfe of Dunwall,” Corvo said without thinking. In the moments of stunned silent that followed the ridiculous joke, Corvo took the time to regret his choices and brace for outrage.

“Oh my god,” Aedan said, pained. Dimitri lit up, looking wickedly delighted by the suggestion; Rulfio barked out a disbelieving laugh that was nearly drowned out by Kent and Sylvio’s giggling.

“That’s _perfect_ ,” Dimitri breathed, and ran over to the nearest group of Whalers to tell them the good news.

“Well, it’s done now,” Rulfio said fatalistically. “They’ll never let it go.”

As he watched the news spread, heralded by groans and laughter at the terrible pun, Corvo was inclined to agree.

“Yeah, but Daud can’t get mad because Corvo came up with it.” Kent sounded smug about it.

“What do you mean?” Corvo frowned.

“Yes, Kent, what _do_ you mean?” Rulfio’s glare had the other Whaler cringing.

“Um—”

“He’ll see it as penance, or something equally trite,” Aedan said. “For killing the Empress,” he added, when Corvo just looked at him blankly.

Corvo made a disinterested noise and turned to Rulfio. “When do we leave for Dunwall?”

“Tomorrow,” Thomas said from behind him. Corvo flinched, to his chagrin, but the lieutenant was peering up at the horse with a frown on his face and paying little attention to Corvo’s reaction.

That was as soon as Corvo could hope for, at this point. The trip would last at least two days, assuming they had fair weather. A lot could happen in three days. A lot could have already happened; Daud must have sent the letter soon after he’d woken in Corvo’s body, so it was hardly current—

“She looks like Daud,” Thomas said, “but naming her the Neighfe of Dunwall is inappropriate.”

“Why do you hate fun, Thomas?” Dimitri asked, walking up just in time to hear Thomas’ words. Apparently he was done spreading the horse’s new name to everyone else.

“I don’t—” Thomas began irritably, then visibly tried to rein in his temper. “Who thought of that name?”

“I did,” Corvo said.

“Of course you did,” Thomas hissed, narrowing his eyes.

“Bad luck. The one person you don’t outrank,” Aedan said, patting Thomas on the shoulder. The Neighfe of Dunwall took that moment of inattention to jerk her reins from Aedan’s grasp and rush at Thomas.

Corvo reacted instinctively, the mark flaring as he pulled Thomas with him as he sprang out of the way. Thomas grunted as he hit Corvo’s chest, nearly knocking them both off their feet.

Dimitri managed to grab hold of the trailing reins, the weight of his small frame stalling her just long enough for Aedan to get a good grip on the reins again.

Thomas stepped back from Corvo, his surprise quickly transforming into annoyance as Dimitri spoke.

“The Neighfe likes her name, Thomas. You can’t change it now,” the young Whaler told him gravely.

“Fine,” Thomas muttered, glancing at Corvo, then back to the horse. “Just make sure they’re ready to take us to Cullero tomorrow. Dimitri, you’ll be taking Leon’s place on the mission.”

“Oh, all right—”

“What,” Aedan said flatly.

Thomas met his glare evenly. “You can take Rinaldo’s place, if you can convince him to switch.”

“Swap,” Rulfio said, then looked horrified at what had just come out of his mouth.

Thomas gave him a wounded look. “We’ll hold a final briefing in ten minutes. I’ll expect the participating squad leaders to be there.” His gaze flicked to Corvo again, as if he were included in that number. Then the Whaler turned and walked away, heading for the manor.

Corvo followed, intending to grill him for further details about the mission and Daud’s strange decision to retire.

“Hold these,” Corvo heard Aedan say, followed by alarmed squawking from Kent as he, presumably, accepted the Neighfe’s reins.

“Why a vineyard?” Corvo asked, opting for diplomacy as they passed back into the manor.

“It was here.” Thomas’ tone of voice skirted the border between polite and curt. It wouldn’t have bothered Corvo so much if he hadn’t just pulled Thomas out of the path of a charging horse.

“Right.” Corvo studied the halls, trying to discern any traces of the previous occupants. He blinked in surprise when Thomas led him to the kitchen.

“You wouldn’t believe how some people complain if there’s nothing to eat during these briefings,” Thomas muttered, rummaging in a cupboard for something suitable.

“’Some people’, hm?”

“You know who I’m referring to, I’m sure.” Thomas re-emerged with a tin of cookies, which he tucked under one arm before going to fill a pitcher with water. “Can you grab some glasses?”

“Half a dozen enough?”

“Should be. If not, they can get a damn glass for themselves,” Thomas added in a dark mutter as he all but stalked back out of the room.

He led Corvo to what he assumed had once been a sitting room. It had been refurnished with a motley collection of chairs around a plain round table and not much else, portraits and other decoration stripped from the walls. The curtains that covered the windows seemed to be from the original owners, rich, dark fabric that wouldn’t have looked out of place at a shrine if only they’d been a more eerie shade of blue or violet.

Corvo left the tray of glasses on the table and went over to the window. Several of the horses had been saddled - though Kent was now alone with the Neighfe, who was still bare-backed - and a few of the Whalers were attempting to ride them. Emphasis on attempt; as Corvo watched, one of them was bucked off by their would-be mount.

“Ooh, cookies,” Hobson said. He bit into one with an audible crunch. “Not as good as Corvo’s tarts though. Shame you didn’t get a chance to try one, you two.”

Corvo glanced back, blinking when he saw that Rulfio, Aedan and Dimitri (who Corvo was reasonably certain was not considered a ‘squad leader’) had all filed in in the meantime. Hobson had addressed his words to Thomas and Rulfio, who were muttering together in the corner again.

“They could have been _poisoned_ , I can’t believe you ate one! We talked about Daud being possessed—”

“Yeah, but literally everyone else had already eaten one, and they were fine.” Hobson sounded unconcerned.

“What about a _slow-acting_ —”

“Where are the original owners of this place?” Corvo asked, hoping to cut off the burgeoning argument. “Murdered?”

Thomas turned to him, any pretenses of calm disappearing. Not that there were many to begin with, at that point. “Daud _bought_ the manor and the surrounding estate from the family, who decided that city living suited them more.” He didn’t say it aloud, but Corvo heard the unspoken _you asshole_ tacked on the end all the same.

“You mean with the blood money Burrows paid him for murdering Jessamine.”

“Aw, fuck,” Hobson muttered into the sudden silence, and pulled the entire tin of cookies over.

“That’s a bad word,” Corvo dimly heard Sylvio say; apparently he was still riding around on Aedan’s back.

“That’s not—” Thomas started, but it was far too late.

* * *

They did manage to finish the briefing, no thanks to Corvo’s fury, Thomas’ attempts to placate him, Hobson’s goading and Aedan and Dimitri’s frequent questions about the mission to which they’d so recently been added.

Corvo was in a foul mood, his anger not assuaged in the least by all the yelling he’d done. He was vaguely ashamed by it, actually, though he had managed to avoid dwelling on it too long by focusing on more pressing issues. Some part of him found the fact that his throat was only a little sore from the shouting even more infuriating, a reminder of how Daud had emerged physically unscathed from his mistakes.

Unscathed, and wealthy to boot. Corvo hadn’t considered it before, assuming that an assassin as prolific as Daud had to have obscene amounts of coin stashed away, but now that he thought of it, Jessamine’s murder must have been the biggest score of Daud’s miserable life.

It was increasingly difficult to reconcile the assassin whose legend had terrorized Dunwall with the supposedly-regretful vintner. Thomas claimed that Daud hadn’t taken a life since Jessamine, and the Outsider had confirmed that Daud had saved Emily once before, but that didn’t absolve Daud of his guilt.

“Sylvio,” Corvo heard Dimitri whisper through the closed door, “maybe you shouldn’t interrupt Lord Corvo’s brooding.”

“You said Daud’s the one who broods,” Sylvio said in a normal register, clearly audible. “Besides, Lord Corvo recruited me, so that means I’m his favourite. That’s what you said.”

“You did tell him that,” Aedan said, not bothering to lower his voice either.

“Well— Oh, Lord Corvo.” Dimitri smiled up at him, all innocence, when Corvo opened the door to Daud’s room.

“I’m your favourite, right?” Sylvio’s wide-eyed look was even more compelling.

“You’re my favourite Whaler,” Corvo said.

Sylvio looked crestfallen at the correction and Corvo was on the verge of taking it back when he perked up once more. “I guess the Empress is your favourite person, coming second-best to her isn’t so bad.”

“Not bad at all,” Aedan said. “Come on, Mitya, dinner isn’t going to make itself.”

“So, what are you brooding about?” Sylvio asked, walking into Corvo’s— Daud’s— the room like he owned the place. Corvo shut the door behind him, hoping to discourage further visitors.

Sylvio looked around with obvious curiosity, taking in the sparse decor without visible disappointment. His hand twitched toward the brace of knives that Corvo had carelessly left on the desk, even as he was seemingly engrossed with the small bookshelf on the other side of the room.

“Don’t even think about it,” Corvo warned.

Sylvio pouted and hopped up on the bed, looking up at Corvo again.

“I’m not brooding,” Corvo said, belated.

Sylvio shrugged. “I don’t even know what brooding is.”

“It means thinking or worrying about something.” Corvo pulled the desk’s chair out, suppressing a grimace as he touched Daud’s coat where it remained draped over the back of the chair. The garment itself was harmless, though Corvo doubted he’d ever forget that particular shade of crimson.

“So what are you thinking about?”

“Daud,” Corvo admitted.

“You’re still mad at him.” Sylvio’s voice lacked a judgmental tone, but the question still put Corvo on the defensive.

“Shouldn’t I be? He killed Jessamine.” And all Corvo had been able to do was look on helplessly. It didn’t matter the number or skill of the assassins, he should have been able to overcome them—

“Yeah, I guess he did.” Sylvio glanced down at the floor, his feet kicking idly where they dangled above the floor. “Just ‘cause someone’s sorry doesn’t mean you have to forgive them.”

“Regret doesn’t fix what was broken.”

“I mean, the Whalers say he’s sorry, but my brother always said that it was someone’s actions that showed the truth. Does he act sorry?” Sylvio glanced up at Corvo. “Oh— I guess you haven’t seen him. Since he’s in your body, in Dunwall.”

“Your brother sounds like a wise man,” Corvo said, rather than address the rest of what Sylvio had said. Daud had already saved Emily, and was currently trying to protect her from another threat that Corvo hadn’t been aware of. Those weren’t the actions of a remorseless, unfeeling man.

“Not wise enough not to join a gang and killed.” He bit his lip after uttering those bitter words. “Um, I mean—”

“Was your brother in that Cullero gang?”

“Nah. Rival gang. They got beat by the Killers. Then the Whalers came and put them down.” Sylvio shrugged. “I think the whole gang went to prison, though I heard a few members escaped.”

“I’m sorry about your brother,” Corvo said.

“Don’t be. I— I’m here, now. You recruited me. I’ll stick by your side. I-if that’s all right by you, Lord Corvo.”

Showing up in court with an orphan in tow wasn’t the most scandalous thing that Corvo could possibly do, but it was rather high up there. Still, he couldn’t ignore Sylvio’s unguarded, sincere concern, and it wasn’t as if he’d ever been one to adhere to the court’s expectations simply by virtue of his heritage, never mind his actions.

“There’ll be a place for you in Dunwall, if you’d like, or if Daud turns you out of the Whalers. Not,” he added swiftly, before Sylvio could take that the wrong way, “that I think Daud would have any reason not to keep you on. He should be lucky to have such a wise recruit.”

He barely got his arms out in time to catch Sylvio as the boy all but launched himself at Corvo, his thin arms wrapping with surprising strength around Corvo’s waist. At least he could still comfort Sylvio, even if nothing else was going quite the way he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well...thanks for sticking around for so long, and for the lovely comments and kudos! <3 there's at least three more chapters so I hope you'll be patient with me while I write them... orz
> 
> I'm taking ficlet requests on my tumblr (@crowbito) if you want to send a prompt in or come say hi or something :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me when I finished the big bang: I'm gonna update this fic by Aug 30 so it'll only be a year since I last updated  
> me now: [daniel radcliffe "I tried" gif]
> 
> anyway, I added the tag for canon-typical violence. nothing... too graphic? I don't think? let me know if you think otherwise and I'll update tags/warning accordingly.
> 
> without further ado let's get to another chapter of Daud ~~fucking things up~~ doing his best :')

When Daud woke two days after his visit to the Carmine estate, he found that he’d lost his voice.

It wasn’t the first time it had happened in his life - once, years ago, after he’d been taken from his mother but before he’d left Serkonos, he’d caught a bad cough. It had been a miserable experience that Daud would’ve preferred to forget; fortunately, the Outsider’s mark granted him a strong resistance, if not outright immunity, to most ailments.

Apparently, that didn’t extend to serious, potentially-debilitating injuries, or at least not to those inflicted before the person was granted the mark. Daud had seen the damage Sullivan had inflicted on Corvo and experienced the lingering pain that came with it, but he’d managed to push through— he’d thought that would be the end of it.

His throat had ached when he returned from dinner with the Carmines; the pain had only slightly lessened when he woke the next morning. Daud had ignored it, though it had grown worse as the day wore on, his voice going hoarser the more he spoke. Emily, the Curnows, and even Joplin and Sokolov had expressed concern over it, inquiring in their own ways about taking a break but that had only made Daud more determined to act as if nothing was wrong.

In hindsight, it was a stupid, stupid mistake.

His throat burned now, a steady pain that wasn’t assuaged no matter how many glasses of water he downed. He emptied the pitcher he kept in his room and it only soothed the pain for a matter of minutes before it was back full force.

“Fuck,” he said, or tried to. A hoarse fricative was all that came out, his voice dying before he could utter the word in full.

“Though a wound may heal over, the scars linger,” the Heart said.

Daud glared at it in the mirror, but it continued its languid beating from where he’d left it on the bedside table. There was something ironic, or poetic, in this; that he should have no voice and the Heart only that and little more—

He switched his glare to his reflection, but he couldn’t sustain it. Though he might temporarily inhabit Corvo’s body, it still belonged to Corvo; Daud wasn’t about to mistake the Royal Protector’s appearance as his own. If anything, it still jarred him to catch sight of himself in a mirror or some other reflective surface.

Daud shook his head and went to get dressed. It was obvious that Emily, the Curnows and Sokolov knew about Corvo’s condition; he wouldn’t have to explain that he’d suddenly been rendered mute. _Why_ he’d let it come to this, on the other hand— Hopefully, they’d leave the subject or skirt around it, as they’d done the day before.

* * *

Emily made no comment when Daud showed up to their daily breakfast with a sheaf of paper and a pen, chattering away like this was nothing out of the ordinary. She was patient with Daud’s slowly written replies, but he was all too aware of his own painstaking pace. He was made even slower by the fact that he had to forge Corvo’s writing.

“Did you hurt your hand?” Emily asked, frowning briefly at the left.

Daud shook his head, bewildered. He’d forgone the gloves today - they made writing too cumbersome - in favour of wrapping a strip of black cloth over the mark, but it was hardly the first time he’d done it.

“All right,” Emily said; she didn’t sound entirely convinced, which was— alarming, but she didn’t seem overly suspicious either. “Have some more tea.”

Daud obliged, spooning in a generous amount of honey and stirring it briskly to ensure it all dissolved. He wasn’t a fan of sweet things, but it helped to soothe his throat. He downed half the cup with a grimace; it really was too sweet.

Emily still looked troubled, but when Daud asked her about it, she only shrugged and changed the subject.

* * *

Curnow blinked when Daud showed up for their daily meeting with his pad of paper, but took the list Daud had prepared beforehand without protest. He scanned the sheet more quickly than Daud would have liked; it had taken him far too long to write it out in Corvo’s hand, only for Curnow to skim over it so swiftly.

“I’ll debrief the first guard shift on your behalf, but you didn’t have to write it down for me, Corvo.” Curnow set the sheet aside, separate from the other documents on the desk. “I learned signs so we could communicate on your— off days.”

Daud stared at him blankly.

Of course Corvo knew how to sign. From the behaviour of those around him, Daud knew that the throat injury was lingering damage from Coldridge; Corvo would have wanted a way to communicate more easily than writing replies on paper.

 _Hurt my hand,_ Daud wrote, waving his left hand for emphasis. He should have agreed when Emily asked him about it. The question should have been— not his first clue, obviously, but the latest in a series of them that he’d blindly blundered over.

Curnow frowned, but before he could voice his disapproval, Daud glared and leaned forward to tap his finger next to the most important point on his list: today’s raid on the Stradford manor. Daud had wanted it to happen yesterday but apparently the earliest Curnow could arrange it was today. Hopefully word of it hadn’t leaked to Lord Stradford yet.

“I’ll lead it, of course, but you still haven’t told me what we’re looking for,” Curnow said. The look he gave Daud made it clear that he was accepting the change of topic for the moment, but the rest of the conversation hadn’t been forgotten.

The joke was on him. None of the City Watch had ever come close to catching Daud himself, though some of his men had had close brushes with the guards; regardless, Daud wouldn’t be caught off guard again, nor would he be discussing his current condition.

_Treason._

Curnow’s eyes widened as he read the word. “What— Lord Stradford? But he’s supported Empress Emily from the day she returned to Dunwall Tower.”

Daud scowled. _My sources say otherwise._

“Shit.” Curnow sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over the lower half of his face. “Fucking— politics.” He spat the last word like a curse.

Daud nodded in agreement. _Search everywhere._

“Of course.” Curnow closed his eyes briefly, and when he opened them again, the worry from earlier was nowhere to be found on his face. “What will you be doing?”

_Investigating elsewhere._

Curnow frowned. “You shouldn’t push yourself so hard, Corvo—”

Daud glared right back and waved his hand dismissively, hoping to convey that he was leaving the conversation. When Curnow still looked ready to protest, Daud simply rose and walked out, ignoring Curnow’s calls.

The servants and guards in the halls glanced at Daud as he approached them, but swiftly averted their eyes and edged away or outright fled when they caught sight of his face. The thunderous expression there probably had something to do with it.

Incompetence was intolerable.

Daud relaxed his jaw with deliberate care, aware of the ache in the muscles there from how hard he’d been clenching his teeth. He and Rulfio had developed a simple system of hand gestures to convey relevant messages during missions, though it likely didn’t resemble the language used by Corvo in any shape or form. Moreover, learning it now was out of the question. His throat injury would, presumably, ease in a few days, and there was no way Daud could learn an entire language in that time in any case.

Some of the tension eased out of him when he reached Corvo’s office. Though he knew it was only an illusion, as soon as he closed the door behind himself, shutting out the rest of Dunwall Tower, he relaxed slightly.

For the scant seconds that it took him to realize that something was wrong.

The stacks of paper on his desk had clearly been gone through, though they’d been replaced with passable skill. Someone without the same attention to detail as Daud probably wouldn’t have noticed; Corvo, with his mess of unsorted sheets and other junk likely would have been oblivious. Most prominently, the drawing that Emily had given him two days ago, which Daud had left untouched out of a combination of paranoia and guilt, was gone.

A single, torn scrap of paper had been left in its place. One corner was stained with— something. Daud hoped it was water. He picked it up gingerly, scanning the words quickly.

 _Carmines making move in two days. Evidence in Stradford’s safe house._ The anonymous author had added the address of said safe house at the bottom - a tenement building in Draper’s Ward, far from Stradford’s manor in the Estate District. No indication of which apartment he’d have to search, unfortunately.

Daud crumpled the note in his fist, fighting back his anger. He’d intended for the raid to act as a distraction for Stradford, the guards occupying the noble’s attention so Daud could sneak around behind his back, perhaps find a servant dispatched to hide incriminating documents.

The raid would still serve as a decoy, but it would be less useful than Daud had hoped. It would reveal Daud’s suspicion to Stradford - though his visit to the Carmines had already done that - and likely make the man even more paranoid than he might already have been. But for its duration, Stradford would be distracted; if Daud could find the evidence promised by the one who’d left the note—

He would need help, as much as it pained him to admit it. He’d have to go to the source.

* * *

Daud had managed to avoid being alone with Sokolov, but given how terribly his day was going, it only made sense that his luck would run out today. Sokolov cornered him in the corridor outside Corvo’s office, his face contorted into what Daud could only assume was a parody of sympathy.

 _What,_ Daud mouthed, in no mood for a chat with the Outsider-obsessed man. With his current inability to speak, any conversation would likely be even more one-sided than usual. Sokolov wasn’t the type to wait for Daud to write his replies.

Sokolov was also the only one who knew Daud himself. He’d dealt with Piero in the past, acquiring supplies and upgrades, but Daud had studied for a season at the Academy with Sokolov. By the Void, he’d painted Daud’s portrait, a mistake that was second only to Daud’s decision to accept the contract on Jessamine’s life. If anyone were to divine Daud’s real identity, it would be Sokolov, which was why Daud had tried to keep away from him.

“The Empress mentioned that you had injured your hand.” Sokolov’s eyes had a decidedly avaricious glint to them, fixed unerringly on the hand in question as they were.

Daud shrugged, trying to think of some excuse to leave the conversation.

“Is it something to do with—” Sokolov glanced around the hallway, which was deserted for the moment, “—the Outsider.” He whispered the creature’s name with a reverence rivaled only by the fanatics Daud had witnessed huddled at the foot of shrines.

Daud shook his head, but given that Sokolov had yet to look away from his hand, he doubted Sokolov even noticed.

When Sokolov reached out to grab his wrist, Daud froze, too startled to pull away or retaliate. The feeling of Sokolov’s fingers curling around the fabric Daud had wrapped around his hand, however, brought him to his senses. He jerked his hand away and took a step back, his other hand going to his side, where he had kept his blade for years. He’d left that same blade behind when he’d left Dunwall, but the months without it had only left him feeling unbalanced without its familiar weight.

There was no familiar hilt for him to grasp now; Corvo carried his folding blade instead, and it was tucked into his pocket.

Sokolov looked alarmed nonetheless, taking several hasty steps back, his hands raised as if to ward Daud off. “We’re all friends here, Corvo,” Sokolov stammered. “If you’ve sustained some injury— why, it’s only fitting that the Royal Physician examine it.”

Daud clenched his hands into fists, easing out of his combative stance. He was mildly gratified when Sokolov tensed even further as Daud reached into his pockets. When Daud only pulled out a pencil and his pad of paper, Sokolov exhaled gustily.

 _Minor injury. Overestimated myself._ Daud wrote quickly, not wanting to prolong this conversation. He had more urgent matters to attend to. Sokolov didn’t reply immediately, a frown settled on his brow as he stared at Daud’s words; Daud took the opportunity to add, _You weren’t in my office?_ It was probably futile to hope for a mundane explanation for the disappearance of Emily’s drawing, but Daud couldn’t help trying anyway.

Sokolov’s frown deepened. “No, of course not. How did you hurt your hands?”

Daud looked at him blankly, at a loss. He’d only wrapped the left, so why—?

“Your writing is a practically-illegible scrawl,” Sokolov said disdainfully. “Though I can’t say it’s unfamiliar.”

Daud glanced down, hiding his dismay - and annoyance - at finding his own writing scrawled across the page. Such a stupid mistake to make, and in the company of the one man likely to realize whose hand he was seeing. He crumpled the sheet quickly and shoved everything into his pocket again.

“Corvo—” Sokolov wasn’t so bold as to reach out to stop him this time, however, so Daud only shrugged and basically fled down the hall.

* * *

“This is where you belong,” the Heart said, its tone opaque.

Daud’s hand twitched up in an aborted motion to press against where he had tucked it into his pocket. He scowled and forged onward, stepping carefully around the puddles of dubiously-murky water that accumulated on the walkways of the sewer. Corvo’s boots were much finer than Daud’s had ever been; no telling how long they’d last in these kind of conditions.

“In the darkness,” the Heart continued, “with the rats and other unspeakable things.”

Daud gritted his teeth and tried to ignore its voice. Difficult, considering the only sounds were the steady flow of the water, or the occasional, distant dripping. Contrary to the Heart’s claim, he hadn’t even seen many rats, much less the mounds of corpses of plague victims - shrouded or otherwise - that had piled up down there during Burrows’ reign.

“That is where you believe you belong.”

 _I don’t,_ Daud wanted to savagely deny, but some part of it was true. The Heart had never outright lied to him, after all. Misleading him was fair game, but in this case Daud knew the truth of its words.

The Heart was silent for the rest of the trip, a fact for which Daud was grateful. Even before it had begun to speak, Daud had been regretting his decision to rely on the sewers to reach his destination. They had been useful for getting around back when he and the Whalers were still in the business of assassination, but as with so many of the more unpleasant aspects of that work, Daud had lost his tolerance for it.

Still, the sewers were the safest bet to move through the city unnoticed in daylight, and Daud emerged on the streets of the Legal District without so much as laying eyes another soul.

“Life will always return, given enough time to heal,” the Heart said as Daud strode purposefully down the road.

There was truth to the Heart’s words; there always was, loathe as Daud might have been to admit it. Its earlier words still ran through his mind.

These streets had been deserted even at the height of the day when the plague had sunk its teeth into Dunwall, but they were busier now. Regular citizens - servants and lawyers and all other manner of people - moved past him as Daud made his way to his destination. With the high collar of his plain jacket, and the added insurance of his scarf to cover the lower half of his face, no one gave him a second glance.

The Legal District had been among the districts hit the hardest by the paranoiac quarantines and evictions, thanks in no small part to Timsh. Daud’s lips peeled back into a sneer as he remembered dealing with the man. After taking the throne, Emily had stripped Timsh of his titles and estate - not that he’d had much left, after Talia was done - and put him to work rehabilitating the city’s plague victims. A fitting punishment, as far as Daud was concerned.

As Daud traveled closer to the edge of the district, the foot traffic thinned. Most of the buildings there were still uninhabited; many of their occupants had contracted the plague in truth or found alternate living arrangements after being evicted. The plague barriers clamping shut the doors had been removed, however, and replaced with more mundane locks to discourage squatters.

The number of guards seemed about the same as the last time he’d come through, perhaps to ensure the security of the abandoned buildings, but Daud didn’t feel the same need to avoid their gaze. He was simply an anonymous citizen of the city going about his business, after all. As before, none of them gave him a second look.

None of them noticed him ducking into an alley either. The building to one side had housed the offices of a law firm and several other businesses, if Daud recalled correctly; the other was a tenement. Both were abandoned, at least on paper, and a pair of guards was stationed at the entrance of the office building.

Daud’s destination was the tenement building, however. Only the top storey had a balcony; five stories up, it would have been beyond the extent of Daud’s usual transversal distance, much less Corvo’s inferior version of the power. He glanced around for a way to reach it, then hauled himself up onto the exposed pipes of the office building, switching between the pipes and the ventilation system to climb several stories.

The security of the safe house was passable, though Daud managed to get inside with minimal effort. The lock on the balcony door was easy to pick, but Daud would let that slide because it was basically impossible to reach without the powers granted by the mark.

The pair of off-duty Whalers froze when Daud opened the door and walked in, shock obvious on their unmasked faces. Stacks of coins littered the table, beside a messy deck of cards.

Daud pulled down the scarf. “You’re playing cards-” he started to demand, forgetting about the delicate state of his throat; then he saw Emily’s drawing of himself tacked up on the wall above the table. “ _You_ stole my drawing?” The words were ragged, nearly incomprehensible versions of themselves by the time he finished, the burning pain in his throat a suitable punishment for forgetting himself like that.

“Shit, it’s the Royal Protector,” Cleon said, tossing his cards to the table and scrambling for the blade propped nearby. Edith did the same, but neither of them made any move to attack him.

Daud resisted the urge to rub his temples, a task made easier by the fact that he was occupied gingerly massaging his aching throat. He slashed his free hand through the air before him, the Whaler hand sign for _stop_.

“You’re not going to kill us?” Cleon asked. “Master Daud told us to watch the Tower, but-”

“Shut it,” Edith hissed.

Daud shook his head, silently cursing himself for exacerbating Corvo’s throat injury, and pulled out his pad of paper and pencil.

The pair looked less wary and more confused as Daud strode over to the cluttered desk in one corner. His annoyance mounted as he had to shove stacks of junk aside to create a flat surface for him to write upon, but he wasn’t about to waste time writing an admonishment for the mess.

“You got the note, then?” Cleon asked, peering over Daud’s shoulder.

Daud concentrated on remembering the proper cipher and not elbowing Cleon in his unprotected side, answering with a terse nod.

“So you don’t believe us,” Edith said, still a cautious distance away.

Daud shrugged, waving his free hand back and forth, hoping to convey something along the lines of _not exactly_.

“I don’t know if we’re allowed to help you more,” Cleon mumbled, but distractedly, as if he was reading the words as Daud wrote them. “Hey, that’s our cipher.”

“What?” Edith again, this time from much closer.

There was a brief scuffle, followed by a yelp and Cleon staggering away, clutching his arm in an exaggerated fashion. Edith took up the position at Daud’s shoulder, her brow furrowed as she read the message.

“Sir?” Edith said slowly.

Daud nodded. Edith and Cleon stared at him. Daud stared back.

“What-”

“How-”

Daud held up a hand, and they fell silent. _Can’t speak,_ he wrote. _Coldridge injury. Didn’t realize—_ he left the rest of that unwritten, an admission that he was unwilling to offer to them. He began again on the line below: _Emily’s safety is top priority._

“Makes sense.” Cleon was nodding when Daud looked up. “I mean, the whole thing with the Brigmore Witches—” He flinched as Daud glared at him, unimpressed with the reminder.

_Where are the others?_

“Wait. How do we know you’re really Daud?” The question came from Edith, of course.

Daud scowled, resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest. The wariness was hardly unfounded; in any other circumstance, he would have approved of the caution. Now, it was another delay that he probably couldn’t afford. _Would Corvo know any of this?_

“Well, he has a point,” Cleon said.

“Who led the Brigmore Witches?” Edith pressed, ignoring the novice.

 _Delilah Copperspoon._ The tip of his pencil snapped off from the force of his writing, ripping a hole through the sheet as well. Daud snatched up the nearest writing implement lying on the desk, glad to discover that it was a fountain pen. _Next._

“What year did Daud come to Dunwall?”

_You don’t know that._

Edith raised her eyebrows, unimpressed. “Rulfio told me.”

Daud tried to gauge her expression, but if she was lying or bluffing, he couldn’t discern it. Some of the Whalers had made a game of learning more about their leader’s past, a pastime that Daud didn’t approve of. He didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire— But there were bigger concerns at hand.

_1811._

“Wow, that’s a long time ago,” Cleon said, fascinated.

Daud closed his eyes, willing himself to be patient.

“What’s Daud’s last name?” Edith asked.

Daud glared at her.

“Or his first name, you know, whichever,” Cleon added; he shrank back when Daud switched the glare to him.

 _The others?_ Daud underlined the words pointedly.

“That glare is almost as scary as it is on Daud’s actual face,” Cleon said. “I think it’s really him.”

Edith nodded gravely. “All right. Tamara and Yuri are watching the Estate District - Carmine Manor and Stradford’s house, specifically. Domenico has Draper’s Ward. Steven went to meet with an informant.” They weren’t the only ones that had remained behind when Daud and a majority of the Whalers had left for Serkonos, but they were the ones whose loyalty Daud trusted. The rest had had their arcane bond severed and dropped out of contact.

“Wait, I thought Steven went to get a frame for the Empress’ drawing,” Cleon said.

“He can do both!”

Daud pretended not to hear that and quickly wrote a reply. _Stradford’s safehouse? Apartment number?_

Edith frowned. “We don’t know. Steven’s the one who tailed Stradford to Draper’s Ward, but he couldn’t get past the security. It’s one of the newly reclaimed buildings, and nobles like Stradford hired additional private guards to supplement what they see as ‘insufficient’ numbers of City Watch.”

Daud bit back a groan not only because it was unprofessional but because he knew uttering the sound would hurt like the Void. Steven hadn’t taken to the powers Daud shared with the Whalers - while it made him unsuitable for certain tasks, it made him invaluable for others. If any of the other Whalers stationed in Dunwall had been following Stradford, they could have used their version of void gaze to pinpoint the noble’s destination—

But it hadn’t been one of them, and Daud would deal with it. Steven had caught on that Stradford had moved the documents, and that was more than Daud had managed to do. It could have been much worse.

 _Cleon,_ Daud began.

“You know my name?”

Daud breathed deeply, his ire rising. He knew the identity of every one of the Whalers, though he would have been hard-pressed to tell some of them apart masked and in uniform. There may have been a few cases of mistaken identity over the years, but certainly not enough to warrant this level of shock. _Go to the Estate District and pull Yuri. The two of you will join Edith, Domenico and me in Draper’s Ward._

“Yes, sir. Should I tell Tamara what we’re— Of course I should,” Cleon said quickly when Daud just glared at him.

 _Edith, write—_ Daud paused and looked at Cleon, who was still reading Daud’s note. He flapped his free hand at him impatiently.

“Right!” Cleon jerked into motion, turning to the balcony door, then lurching back towards the lockers along one wall that Daud assumed held their gear.

Satisfied, Daud finished, _a note to Steven. Explain if you can._

“I’ll just say that Daud told us to team up with the Royal Protector. Trying to explain more fully in writing would be impossible,” she added pointedly at Daud’s narrow look.

That was true. Daud scowled but left her at the desk, going over to the equipment lockers. He helped himself to the stun mines there, and a spare wristbow. Corvo’s crossbow was similar, but Daud was more familiar with the wristbow. He loaded up on sleep darts as well, though Corvo had a decent collection of those. Why Daud hadn’t found a supply of stun mines among Corvo’s munitions, he wasn’t entirely certain, but it was a question for another day.

Edith joined him, wordlessly handing him several pencils and another pad of paper before gathering her own supplies.

They were on their way within five minutes. Edith led him to the basement, which had an exit to the sewers.

“Steven can’t reach the balcony, and some of the novices have trouble making the transversal too,” Edith explained, her voice muffled by the mask. “Besides, it’s risky to use the roofs during the day. And with the weepers mostly gone and the rat swarms down, the only dangers down here are river krust.”

Daud nodded. He had a few more questions, but they weren’t so pressing that he wanted to stop and write them out, so the rest of the journey to Draper’s Ward passed in silence.

“How long have you been— like this?” Edith asked, gesturing her hands to encompass Daud’s body, as they waited for the street above them to clear enough for them to slip out unnoticed.

He held up seven fingers.

“A week!” Edith hushed herself immediately, but her incredulous exclamation echoed around the passage all the same. “A week,” she repeated more quietly, though no less disbelievingly.

Daud nodded absently, watching the street for the moment they needed. He could simply stop time, but he wanted to conserve his stamina for the time being.

“I mean, after you told us it was you, I was thinking it must’ve been you that decided to visit the Carmines, but— Why didn’t you come to us sooner?”

Daud gestured for her to move and she remained quiet until they were safely hidden in a nearby alley.

“Why didn’t you come to us sooner? Like, when you could actually talk.”

Daud scowled at her, starting to become annoyed again. He gestured impatiently for her to keep moving.

Edith sighed, as if Daud was being the difficult one. “I’ll go ahead and explain the situation to Domenico. If the Royal Protector suddenly showed up, any of us would run away.”

Daud nodded curtly, tracking her progress up various pipes and vents before she disappeared over the lip of the roof. He pulled out a paper and pencil, but found that he had no ready excuse for leaving the Whalers here in the dark. Claiming that Corvo worked alone was flimsy at best. Daud himself always had the Whalers at hand when he went on missions, even if he chose to carry out a particular assignment on his own. While they might not always know what he was doing, Daud always let the relevant Whalers know his expectations.

He’d also let Thomas and the others in Serkonos know about the switch as soon as he had the opportunity, though that had been for Corvo’s benefit more than his own—

A whistle drew him out of his thoughts. A masked face peered down from the roof; impossible to tell if it was Edith or Domenico. He scaled the wall quickly, joining the pair of them.

“Sir,” Domenico said, offering him a salute. “The safehouse is a couple of blocks over. This way.”

“Did you think of an excuse yet?” Edith asked, a grin obvious in her voice. The glare Daud shot her garnered no visible reaction, but she didn’t press the issue further as they reached the address.

It was as heavily guarded as Edith had said earlier. More, even. There was a guard - a _pair_ of guards - set on the door leading to the roof. No Overseers and their blasted music boxes, at least.

“Shift change was fifteen, twenty minutes ago. They switch off every four hours,” Domenico reported as they crouched below the lip of the roof of a nearby building.

 _We go now,_ Daud wrote. The raid could have begun already; no telling how Stradford and his allies would react in the meantime.

“Standard procedure doesn’t exactly apply here,” Edith said slowly. “Do you only have access to the Royal Protector’s powers?”

Daud nodded, grimacing at the reminder. Not that he could forget. He had thought he used his powers in moderation, not relying too heavily on them to accomplish his goals; Corvo’s shortened transversal distance and the subsequent difficulty it had been giving him said otherwise.

“Then you can’t summon us. What about bending time? Does that affect—”

Edith stopped mid-sentence, her words cutting out the same as every other sound - the noise of the streets, the faint breeze and everything else. Daud groaned loudly, then immediately regretted it.

“—us?” Edith finished a few seconds later.

Daud nodded again.

“Damn inconvenient,” Domenico put in. “So what’s the plan, Master?”

 _We take out the guards on the roof. Domenico stays to keep watch and tell the others._ Daud’s writing was nearly illegible even to his own eyes, he was writing so quickly, but if the Whalers had any trouble reading the words, they kept it to themselves. _Edith backs me up when we go in. We’ll sweep the building floor by floor, top to bottom. If Cleon and Yuri arrive before we’re done, Domenico and Yuri will join the search. Cleon stands watch._

“No killing?”

Daud shook his head. _Unless necessary._

“Understood. There are a number of private guards as well as the regular City Watch. About a score or so altogether. No hounds that I saw. They brought in a shipment of whale oil canisters while I was watching too, so there are probably Sokolov security devices inside as well.”

“Great,” Edith said, voicing what Daud couldn’t. “Who else is occupying these apartments? Doesn’t anyone think it strange that there’s such a high concentration of guards?”

Domenico shrugged. “I saw a couple of people going in and out, but they didn’t stay long. Most of the apartments don’t seem inhabited; I didn’t see many people leaving for the day, and most of the windows were dark.”

Daud tapped Edith on the shoulder impatiently, drawing her attention back to him. He slashed one hand at the rooftop opposite: they needed to get moving.

“I’ll take the left?”

Daud nodded.

Taking out the pair of guards was familiar, the motions of sneaking up behind an unaware target and looping an arm around their neck to knock them out basically second nature to Daud, though he hadn’t had much cause to use those skills in the months after Corvo spared him. They stowed the unconscious guards in a corner, out of sight of the door to roof.

A quick scan of the floor below with Corvo’s void gaze tricked up several items of note - mostly valuable trinkets, from their shape; nothing so convenient as a folder of documents or a stack of audiograph cards. The Heart quickened against his chest, signaling the proximity of at least one bone artifact, though it was beyond his sight.

Edith and Daud made short work of the six men guarding the top floor, stashing their unconscious bodies in an unoccupied apartment and moving on. Tempting as it was to grab the valuables Daud had seen, it wasn’t as if Corvo had need of extra coin; finding the evidence they needed came first.

The floor below was blocked off; the opening where the door should have been was covered with a layer of sturdy bricks, and when Daud checked, he could only see a few unmoving bodies. Plague victims left to rot, presumably. He made a note to pass that information on to the relevant people - Sokolov or Curnow would probably know who handled the disposal of infected corpses.

Their odds improved on the next floor; there were nearly a dozen guards, and the hallways were partitioned off at several points with walls of light.

“Think this is the floor, boss,” Edith muttered, her words nearly inaudible behind the mask.

Daud, crouched around the corner opposite her, gave a curt nod and gestured for her to take that side of the floor.

“Better to work in pairs with this much security,” Edith disagreed. She never would have done so before the Empress; spoken with Billie, so the lieutenant could pass the concern on anonymously to Daud, but never to his face.

Was it the fact that Daud’s ability to argue was hampered by his lack of voice? More likely, she felt comfortable skirting the edges of insubordination now that Daud had retired; discipline had been relaxed in the months leading up to the confrontation with Delilah, and Daud’s departure from Dunwall had only added lowered the standards further.

But Edith’s words— made sense. With the number of security devices, it would be all too easy to get separated by a number of guards - east enough to circumvent with their arcane powers - or a wall of light, which was more difficult to deal with.

Daud nodded again and took point.

Their sweep of the first couple of apartments passed without a hitch; the second flat they searched had two entrances, which allowed them to bypass a wall of light. They took out the guards as they went, stashing them in closets or behind other furniture, which left the path behind them clear but ran the risk of alerting the other sentries to their presence if they noticed their fellows’ absence.

“Halfway done; our luck’s holding up so far,” Edith commented as they made to leave the latest apartment.

Lacking his voice, Daud had to settle for glaring at her over his shoulder. He had certain rules about tempting fate; it seemed painfully deliberate on the universe’s part that the moment he stepped out into the hall - attention still partially focused on his talkative subordinate, stupid, careless— that the risk they’d taken demanded payment.

“Hey, could’ve sworn Mason was s’posed to be patrolling over here—”

The mutter was all the warning Daud got before the guard rounded the corner. Daud kicked the door shut, leaving Edith in the apartment behind him, and shot the guard with a sleep dart.

Or tried to; the man was reeling back, eyes wide, and the dart shattered against the wall next to him. Daud cursed internally; he wouldn’t have missed that shot six months ago. He loaded another dart with a flick of his wrist, but the guard’s shout of alarm was already echoing down the hall.

The second dart found its mark, but that left Daud with only two more of them. The footsteps and cries echoing toward him were from more than three guards. He ran back towards the stairwell, pausing to switch off the wall of light in his path - as obvious a path to follow as any - before pelting up the stairwell. He tossed the pair of stun mines he’d grabbed back at the safe house at the wall beside the doorway and ducked around the landing.

The familiar buzz of electricity followed by the thud of a pair of bodies hitting the floor, met his ears a few moments later. The remaining three guards advanced more cautiously, weapons drawn - except for the one at the back. A bulky machine that Daud recognized with a sickening lurch was strapped to his front, though he wasn’t wearing the Overseers’ distinctive uniform.

It made no difference, in the end. Anyone could turn the crank of the Abbey’s damn boxes, the “pure” music slamming into him like a blow to the chest. His void gaze was forcibly deactivated, a headache blooming immediately in its wake; Daud gasped for breath.

“Above!” one of the guards shouted, which was motivation enough for Daud to stagger up the stairs towards the next floor— if he could put enough distance between himself and the blasted music box, he’d able to use his powers. To escape, or at least regroup.

Daud’s face was well-known, and while he’d tried to avoid being seen, if someone happened to spot him near the scene of a murder, he wasn’t overly concerned about it. But Corvo’s face couldn’t afford to be seen here - or perhaps it could, but Daud knew the Royal Protector would never allow himself to be seen. So Daud couldn’t allow such a thing either, not while he was stuck in Corvo’s body.

The music cut off behind him, accompanied by a horrified shout of “Witch!”

Edith had decided to join the fray, apparently. Daud had wanted her to continue searching while he distracted the rest of the guards, but as the crushing pressure of the music eased, he couldn’t fault her decision.

Daud got the closest guard with his second last sleep dart, shooting it almost blindly at the man’s torso, but the remaining guard dodged his final shot.

The man’s face was familiar, though the clothes he wore were not— Denman. One of Daud’s former master assassin who had defected in the wake of Corvo’s escape from their custody. A number of Whalers had left when it became clear business wouldn’t be resuming as usual after Emily took the throne, though most had chosen to stay.

“I had a feeling you spineless choffers would get wind of this and come running sooner or later,” Denman snarled, lashing out with his sword.

Daud barely got the folding blade out in time, his reactions still sluggish from the damn music box.

Denman’s eyes widened, darting from the distinctive blade to Daud’s covered face. “Royal Pr—”

This needed to end, _now_ ; Daud disengaged, putting space between them and summoning a Whaler on instinct. But neither Edith nor Domenico appeared; Daud stared in paralyzed horror as a swarm of rats - fucking plague rats, the oversized Pandyssian breed that had infested the city in the wake of Burrows’ scheme - boiled up out of the shadows instead.

Denman shouted wordlessly, slashing at the swarm with his sword - but there were far too many of them to fend off. In a matter of seconds, all that remained was a tacky pool of blood and an indeterminate number of still-hungry rats. They milled around the bloodstain, in search of more food, but turned as one to the stairs leading down as Edith came up.

Daud pulled on the Void, sparing no thought for finesse, just wanting the rats _gone_. With a sound bordering on a screech, the swarm dissolved into the same darkness from which they’d come.

“Damn, boss.” Edith’s gaze seemed fixed on the blood, her mask angled down. It was impossible to tell if she was disgusted or impressed.

Daud couldn’t decipher his own feelings, for that matter. He certainly wasn’t impressed by or proud of what he’d done. Disgust was up there, but distant, overwhelmed by a lingering sense that he’d betrayed someone - whether that was Corvo or Denman or someone else entirely - and the now-familiar press of guilt.

“Two apartments left.” Edith’s voice broke the silence again; who knew how long Daud had been standing there, staring at the blood. “We should go before any more guards show up.”

“Yeah,” Daud said. Tried to say. Barely noticed the pain in his throat, but it was enough to remind him not to speak. He stepped carefully around the pool of blood - _Denman’s_ blood - and followed Edith down the stairs.

Dealing with what had just happened could come later, once they’d secured the damning proof of the Carmines’ plot that they’d come for. The investigation into Delilah’s name had been a similar distraction in the wake of Daud murdering the Empress.

The search now worked about as well as it had then.


End file.
